» JOAN  £ 

AND  -THE 

BABIE5-AND-I 


COSMO   HAMILTON 


JOAN   AND  THE    BABIES   AND    I 


Cofifmo  Hamilton 


THE  SINS  OF  THE  CHILDREN 
THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 
THE  DOOR   THAT  HAS   NO   KEY 
THE  MIRACLE  OF  LOVE 

A     PLEA     FOR     THE     YOUNGER 
GENERATION 

JOAN  AND  THE  BABIES  AND  I 


We  had  met  and  loved  and  the  earth  was  ours. 
FRONTISPIECE.     See  page  86. 


JOAN    AND    THE 
BABIES  AND  I 


BEING   CERTAIN   CHAPTERS    FROM 

THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF  JOHN    MAINWARING 

THE    NOVELIST 


BY 

COSMO    HAMILTON 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
MARY    LANE    McMILLAN 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND   COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  79/6, 
BY  COSMO  HAMILTON. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  March,  1917 


NortoooU 

Set  up  and  electrotypcd  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

We   had   met  and  loved  and   the   earth  was 

ours         .....  Frontispiece 

There  was  an  exquisite,  a  bewildering  femi- 
ninity all  about  her     ....     PAGE   43 

Three    soldiers    in    the    sitting-room    before 

dinner,  marched  grimly  round  and  round        ««      95 

For  a  moment   we   stood   looking  into  each 

other's  eyes,  afraid  to  speak  .          .        "102 


2136175 


JOAN   AND    THE   BABIES 
AND   I 


A  STURDY  little  shadow  rested  sud- 
denly on  the  pages  of  my  book. 

"Hullo,  man." 

I  looked  up.     It  was  a  boy. 

"Hullo,  man,"  I  answered. 

He  shook  his  well-shaped  head  and  a 
look  of  resentment  came  into  his  large, 
brown,  intelligent  eyes. 

"I  be's  a  boy,"  he  stated,  with  ex- 
treme decision. 

"O,  I  beg  your  pardon.  And  what 
do  they  call  you?" 


JOAN    AND-  THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"John." 

"Jack  for  short?" 

"Mudder  does." 

I  held  out  my  hand.  The  sun  fell 
hotly  on  my  palm.  "How  de  do, 
John?"  I  should  have  been  glad  of 
the  privilege  of  calling  him  Jack,  too. 

He  gave  me  a  very  brown,  small  hand. 
:<Your  nose  is  coming  off,"  he  said, 
cordially. 

;'Yes,  the  sun's  splendid,  isn't  it? 
My  chin's  coming  off  too.  It's  like 
being  punished  for  being  naughty  to 
shave  every  morning." 

"Do  you  shave  your  nose?"  He 
touched  it  in  a  gingerly  but  interested 
way  with  a  forefinger. 

"Not  yet,"  and  I  rapped  a  piece  of 
wood  three  times.  "Won't  you  sit 
2 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

down?"  I  made  room  for  him  on  the 
flat  piece  of  brown  rock  in  the  hollows 
of  which  the  receding  sea  had  left  warm 
reminders. 

John  glanced  behind  me  where,  be- 
yond a  bank  of  sand  and  rock  and  under- 
growth, he  could  just  see  the  roof  of  a 
lonely  verandahed  cottage,  and  in  front, 
where  a  blue-green  sparkling  sea  was 
playing  with  the  golden  sand.  He  had 
begun  to  build  a  great  fort  with  moat 
and  drawbridge  and  the  flag  of  the 
United  States,  in  the  shape  of  a  piece 
of  floppy  seaweed,  flying  proudly  in  the 
soft  warm  breeze.  It  was  a  hundred 
yards  away  and  a  little  round,  golden 
head  was  bending  over  it.  I  could  see 
two  small  brown  legs  and  the  blue  of  a 
short  frock. 

3 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

My  pipe,  which  had  got  out  the 
wrong  side  of  the  bed  that  morning 
and  had  been  gummy  and  disagreeable 
ever  since,  refused  to  draw.  It  detested 
sarcasm,  and  like  a  fool  I  had  forgotten 
that.  I  had  to  fall  back  on  a  cigarette 
and  took  out  a  rather  nice  silver  case. 

It  caught  John's  miss-nothing  eye. 
"When  that  be's  empty  I  have  it,"  he 
said,  and  metaphorically  placed  it 
among  his  collection  of  treasures. 

I  didn't  see  it  there.  I  pointed  to 
brown  legs.  "Who's  that?" 

"Marjory." 

"Does  she  belong  to  you?" 

He  looked  puzzled  and  shook  his 
head.  "She's  Mudder's,"  he  said,  dis- 
missing the  subject.  "You  live  in  this 
place?" 

4 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"No.  I'm  staying  at  the  hotel  over 
there."  I  pointed  to  the  roof  that  cut 
the  sky-line  rather  nicely  half  a  mile 
away,  with  a  long  stretch  of  yellow  sand, 
a  white  bridge  and  a  white  road,  garden 
bordered,  lying  in  between. 

"You  like  it  there?" 

"It  does,"  I  said,  thinking  with 
amusement  and  a  touch  of  bewilder- 
ment of  the  large  collection  of  little 
dishes  with  which  a  white  frocked, 
roguish-eyed  waitress  immediately  built 
me  round  the  moment  I  sat  down  to  a 
meal.  Also  of  the  tinny  piano  in  the 
bleak  ball-room  out  of  whose  martyred 
keys  dozens  of  inexpert  young  fingers  con- 
tinually tortured  nerve-racking  sounds. 

"I  have  a  house,"  said  John.  "You 
have  no  house?" 

5 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  pointed  to  the  horizon  with  a  geo- 
graphically inaccurate  finger.  :'Yes, 
three  thousand  miles  over  that  line,"  I 
answered,  "and  then  fifty  more." 

"Is  anyone  there  now?" 

"Yes,  a  housekeeper  and  a  big  dog 
and  a  lot  of  books.  All  the  same  it's 
so  empty  that  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
That's  why  I'm  here.  Who  lives  in 
your  house  ?" 

"Me  and  Mudder  and  Marjory  and 
Nannie  and  Rose  and  Robert  and  Alice." 

"Do  they  belong  to  Mudder,  too?" 

He  shot  out  a  shrill  scream  of  laugh- 
ter. "No;  Alice  is  mine  and  Robert's 
Marjory's." 

It  was  my  turn  to  be  puzzled. 

"They're  bunnies,"  he  said. 

For  some  absurd  and  unexplainable 
6 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

reason  I  felt  relieved.  And  then  a  little 
sweet  voice  cr-me  to  us  calling  "John!" 
and  again  and  again  "John!"  —  the 
last  time  with  a  suggestion  of  tears. 

But  as  John  took  no  notice,  being 
extremely  interested  in  the  clocks  of 
my  socks,  I  called  out,  "Here's  John," 
and  waved  my  hand. 

"What  he's  those  things?" 

"Clocks." 

"Do  they  tell  the  time?" 

"No;  they  only  tell  the  character. 
If  they're  plain  and  ordinary  like  mine 
you  may  speak  to  the  man  who  wears 
them,  but  if  they're  dinky  and  queer 
you  mustn't  touch  him  with  the  end  of 
a  barge  pole.  .  .  .  Hullo,  Marjory." 

The  golden  head  and  brown  legs  and 
short  blue  frock  were  in  arm's  length  of 
7 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

me.  Also  big,  wide-apart  eyes,  a  little 
unformed  nose,  a  beautifully  shaped 
mouth  and  two  charming  tanned  hands 
with  a  little  ring  on  one  ringer. 

"This  is  a  Man,"  said  John. 

"Thank  you,  John,"  I  said.  I  had 
never  had  such  a  splendid  introduction 
before.  "How  de  do,  Marjory." 

"I  sit  by  you,  too,"  she  said,  and  put 
one  hand  on  my  knee. 

A  funny  hot  feeling,  like  pain 
threaded  in  a  sharp  needle,  ran  through 
me.  If  I  had  these  two  little  good  bits 
of  responsibility  in  my  life  I  might  still 
have  been  in  that  empty  house  three 
thousand  miles  away  across  that  line, 
and  then  fifty  more. 

John  made  a  long  arm  across  me  and 
pushed  the  little  hand  away.  "You 
8 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

mustn't  do  that,"  he  said.  "He  he's 
mine." 

Brown  legs  looked  into  my  face,  at 
first  doubtfully,  then  a  slow  smile  turned 
up  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  two  rows 
of  tiny  white  teeth  came.  She  put  her 
hand  back  again  and  took  me  into  her  set. 
:' You're  Margy's  man,  too,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  proud  moment  for  me.  But 
I  was  seized  with  a  small  panic.  How 
to  keep  the  friendship  of  both  these 
new  friends  ?  I  was  a  child  among 
children.  I  knew  that  they  blew 
watches  and  made  a  tunnel  between 
one's  legs  and  had  whooping  cough  and 
took  crackers  when  no  one  was  looking 
and  had  a  perfectly  wonderful  knack 
of  finding  places  that  left  dirty  marks 
on  white  clothes.  So  I  hauled  out  my 
9 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

watch  quickly  to  divert  what  was  going 
to  become  a  very  flattering  fight  for  the 
possession  of  me.  "  Blow,  old  son,"  I  said. 

He  did,  and  gurgled  and  laughed  to 
see  his  success. 

"Now  me,"  said  little  brown  legs. 

And  all  was  well. 

They  started  to  talk  together,  —  John 
about  a  battleship  that  had  appeared 
two  or  three  days  before,  and  Marjory 
about  a  little  girl  whose  nurse  had 
spanked  her,  but  with  such  a  rush  of 
words  that  to  this  day  the  true  story  of 
that  tragic  event  remains  a  mystery. 
And  all  the  time  the  sun  shone  hotly  on 
the  three  of  us  and  the  song  of  the  sea 
came  merrily  to  our  ears  and  not  a  cloud 
even  as  big  as  a  man's  hand  broke  the 
wonderful  blue  of  the  sky.  John  had 
10 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

run  a  hand  through  my  arm  and  Mar- 
jory had  put  her  cheek  against  my  sleeve 
and  a  small  pink  foot  on  my  leg.  I  was 
accepted. 

And  just  as  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to 
propose  that  I  should  be  conducted 
over  the  fort  and  shown  the  great  hall 
where  the  gallant  pirate  lived  with  his 
ruffians,  a  rather  shrill  Irish  voice  called 
"Babies --Babies." 

"That's  my  Nannie,"  said  Marjory, 
but  she  made  no  effort  to  move. 

And  John  brought  a  great  rusty  hook 
out  of  his  pocket,  with  three  shells,  a 
cutting  of  an  engine  from  a  magazine, 
an  empty  cotton  reel,  a  bit  of  pencil, 
and  a  used  tin  of  tooth  paste.  "Look !" 
he  said  proudly. 

A  very  large,  beamy  shadow  fell  on 
ii 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

the  sand  in  front  of  us.  "Whall,  I 
guess  you're  comfortable,  annyway." 

We  all  looked  up.  It  was  obviously 
Nannie,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
needn't  have  been  so  broad  and  thick 
through  or  possess  such  tremendous 
girth  to  look  after  two  such  thorough- 
bred youngsters.  She  could  have 
managed  a  younger  son  who  had  be- 
come a  harmless  lunatic  with  one  of 
her  fat  spatulate  hands,  and  kept  a 
six-foot-two  Connemara  constable  in 
order  with  half  her  ripe  tongue. 

"Do  you  want  to  take  the  children 
in  now?"  I  asked. 

"I  do,  sorr,"  she  said.  "I  guess  I 
must  clean  them  up  for  their  dinner." 

"Lunch,"  corrected  Marjory,  who  still 
made  no  effort  to  move. 

12 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"No,"  said  John.  "I  don't  want 
to." 

He  was  clutched.  "Ye  know  ye 
must  come.  It's  late  as  it  is.  If  Oi 
have  anny  troubil  ye  shan't  go  to  the 
village  this  afternoon  for  the  candies. 
Oi'll  learn  ye  to  say  'I  don't  want  to' 
to  me.  Oi'm  yer  Nannie  and  ye  must 
mind  me." 

She  lifted  him  up  as  though  he  were 
a  small  cushion.  All  his  articles  of 
virtu  fell  and  he  set  up  a  big  howl. 

But  Marjory  still  made  no  effort  to 
move. 

"Now  come  along,  Marjory.  Ye 
mother  couldn't  see  you  from  the  house 
and  was  frightened  to  death  in  case 
ye'd  got  drownded." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  I  said.  But  I 
13 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

couldn't  be  heard  because  John  was 
giving  an  exact  imitation  of  a  jackal  in 
acute  agony  and  of  a  man  on  the  tread- 
mill. It  was  very  disturbing. 

He  was  clutched  again.  "Look  at 
the  gentleman.  He's  ashamed  of  ye. 
Such  a  cry-baby  as  ye  are  thin." 

"I  won't  be  a  cry-baby."  The  noise 
ceased  at  once.  John  stood  looking  at 
me  with  his  mouth  drawn  down  and  his 
eyes  stretched,  and  tears  streaming  down 
his  face. 

Nannie  seized  her  opportunity  and  a 
hand  of  both  children  and  drew  them 
up  through  the  slipping  sand,  talking 
hard. 

I  got  up  and  watched  them.  They 
kept  looking  round  and  waving  and 
calling  "Good-bye,  Man."  And  when 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

they  had  been  half  pushed  and  half 
drawn  up  to  the  cottage  I  saw  someone 
in  white  come  out  eagerly  and  quickly 
and  bend  down  and  draw  both  my  new 
friends  into  her  arms.  The  sun  dodged 
the  roof  of  the  verandah  and  laid  a 
caressing  hand  on  a  small  golden  head. 

They  waved  again  before  going  in, 
and  for  what  seemed  a  long  time  I 
stood  looking  through  the  wall  of  the 
cottage  and  through  the  dead  years, 
with  regret  like  a  great  load  in  a  home- 
sick heart.  I  turned  away.  I  could 
see  by  the  shortness  of  my  shadow  that 
I  also  must  hurry  to  lunch  or  I  should 
have  to  go  without.  And  there  at  my 
feet  lay  a  collection  of  some  of  the  most 
valuable  things  in  the  world. 

I  made  a  hole  in  the  sand  and  buried 
15 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

them,  marking  the  spot  carefully.  As 
I  started  to  go  I  thought  I  saw  the 
golden  head  move  quickly  from  an  upper 
window.  I  suppose  it  was  because  I 
hoped  I  should. 


16 


II 

TO  be  at  a  loose  end ;  to  feel,  in 
the  middle  of  life,  that  you  are 
drifting,  with  a  dragging  anchor,  from 
old  moorings ;  to  realise  suddenly  that, 
although  you  can  call  on  many  friends 
and  rely  upon  their  coming,  you  are 
utterly  unable  to  bring  to  you  the  one 
human  being  who  can  give  life  a  meaning 
and  a  reason  and  a  purpose ;  to  go 
through  crowded  cities  and  quiet  coun- 
try lanes  always  alone  even  if  you  are 
listening  to  the  laughter  and  talk  of 
brothers  and  the  men  you  like ;  to  wake 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  a 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

sense  of  homesickness  so  strong  and 
urgent,  a  longing  and  a  desire  for  wife 
and  children  and  home  so  terrible  and 
poignant  that  ugly  thoughts  form  them- 
selves into  menacing  shapes  and  lurk 
in  the  corners  of  your  room ;  to  feel 
that  you  are  working  for  no  one  partic- 
ular person  who  will  take  pride  in  your 
success,  have  patience  with  your  failure 
and  give  you  God-sent  sympathy  and 
encouragement  in  your  efforts  to  do 
better;  and  then  to  wander  out  aim- 
lessly in  search  of  the  someone  that 
you  need,  bitterly  persuaded  that  you 
have  missed  her  in  the  crowd,  —  these 
things  are  not  good  for  a  man.  I  knew, 
because  I  was  going  through  all  this.  I 
had  brothers  who  were  married  and 
whose  homes  echoed  with  children's 
18 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

footsteps  that  I  envied.  I  had  an  un- 
married brother  whose  loyalty  and  un- 
quenchable friendship  were  things  to  be 
proud  of;  but  he,  much  younger,  had 
his  own  vital  and  vivid  interests  and 
his  way  to  make.  Father  and  mother, 

—  dead. 

I  had  come  to  America  to  widen  my 
interests,  to  divert  my  attention  from 
myself,  knowing  that  self-analysis  led 
either  to  martyrdom  or  mental  malady. 
I  had  seized  on  New  York  as  a  chemist 
on  a  new  gas,  or  a  bug  hunter  on  a  new 
species  of  beetle.  I  had  examined  it 
closely,  been  amused  and  interested  at 
its  rush  and  glitter  and  gone  to  the 
Massachusetts  coast  with  only  one  idea, 

—  to   fill   my   lungs   with   air   that   was 
clean  and  my  eyes  and  brain  with  the 

19 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

sight  and  sense  of  nature  in  all  its  sim- 
ple pride  of  life  and  movement  and 
genuineness. 

I  had  chosen  the  south  coast  instinc- 
tively, first  having  explored  Boston  and 
seen  in  it  curious  reminiscent  bits  of 
Cheltenham  and  London  and  some  of 
the  towns  along  the  Thames.  For 
several  days  I  had  been  in  the  holiday- 
making  hotel,  alone  among  a  throng  of 
young  people  whose  fathers  and  mothers 
talked  and  rocked  on  the  verandah  or 
played  golf  on  a  pretty  course  that 
overlooked  the  sea.  The  place  was 
good.  I  liked  it  all  the  better  because 
it  reminded  me  of  the  Emerald  Coast 
of  Brittany,  and  I  bathed  in  sea  and 
sun  with  relish  and  refreshment.  But 
the  incessant  spirit  of  search  and  wander 
20 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

that  dogged  my  heels  had  caught  up 
with  me  again  that  morning  and  had 
linked  arms  as  I  had  gone  out  to  try 
and  outdistance  it,  and  to  concentrate 
my  thoughts  on  all  the  work  that  I  had 
to  do.  The  old  restlessness  was  in  my 
veins  again.  No  ship  came  over  the 
horizon  to  throw  out  friendly  signals. 
Work  seemed  to  have  lost  its  old  power 
to  enchain  me,  to  give  me  the  old  satis- 
faction that  goes  with  the  act  of  creat- 
ing. I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  get 
up  and  go  on,  —  it  didn't  much  matter 
where,  —  when  the  little  sturdy  shadow 
fell  on  the  blank  pages  of  my  manu- 
script book  and  the  small  clear  voice 
said,  "Hullo,  man." 

And  as  I  went  back  to  lunch  I  had 
an  odd  warm  feeling  that  I  should  stay 

21 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

to  dinner  and  other  lunches  and  dinners. 
I  felt  that  I  had  left  the  uncomfortable 
jeering  spirit  that  I  so  completely  de- 
tested somewhere  among  the  rocks  and 
undergrowth,  biting  its  nails.  These 
two  children  had  given  me  their  blessed 
trust  and  liking.  They  had  struck  the 
human  note.  They  were  friends.  They 
might  have  been  mine. 

I  laughed  at  the  thought  of  it,  as  I 
hurried  through  the  dry  sand  with  its 
queer  yellow  weeds,  or  marched  across 
the  smooth  almost  wet  stuff,  from  which 
the  sea  had  just  receded,  leaving  the 
pattern  of  the  soles  of  my  shoes  tem- 
porarily behind.  I  had  met  and  liked 
other  children  and  been  trusted.  I  had 
dozens  of  little  friends  in  various  parts 
of  the  earth  who  ran  to  me  when  I 
22 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

came.  But  somehow,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  these  two,  John  and  Marjory, 
seemed  to,  —  yes,  I  used  the  word,  - 
"need"  me.  I  felt  just  that,  unexplain- 
able  as  it  was  then,  stupid  and  absurd 
as  it  seemed  in  those  budding  hours, 
and  metaphorically  I  let  go  my  anchor, 
I  decided  to  stay.  I  didn't  remember 
to  have  felt  so  light  shouldered,  so  un- 
burdened, so  curiously  and  newly  awake 
to  life  and  its  interests  and  ties  for  God 
knows  how  long.  I  went  back  with  a 
song  in  my  heart  as  though  I  had  got 
out  of  a  long  tunnel  and  the  sun  was  on 
me  again.  It  was  very  strange  and 
good. 

After    lunch    I    collected    my    manu- 
script  book   and    a   pencil,  —  self-filling 
pens  are  bad  servants  and  are  likely  to 
23 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

turn  a  man  into  a  cynic,  —  and  took  up 
a  place  on  the  verandah  that  was  de- 
serted because  the  sun  was  on  it,  and 
with  a  new  feeling  of  energy  went  over 
the  first  few  chapters  of  my  new  novel. 
I  found  them  limp,  aimless  and  tinc- 
tured with  a  peculiar  bitterness  that 
left  a  taste  in  my  mouth  like  that  of 
nasturtium  seeds.  I  tore  them  out  and 
dropped  them  in  little  pieces  over  the 
verandah  into  a  small  mountain  of  dead 
leaves.  The  writing  of  a  long  novel  at 
the  best  of  times  is  not  much  less  wear- 
ing than  picking  a  hole  in  a  prison  wall 
with  a  hair  pin.  You  must  feel  con- 
vinced that  your  plot  means  something, 
your  characters  are  alive  and  that  you 
are  going  to  paint  a  picture  of  a  recog- 
nisable phase  of  life  that  will  have  some 
24 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

sort  of  value  to  your  readers,  or  you 
might  as  well  go  out  and  break  stones. 
I  liked  my  plot  as  I  had  worked  it  out 
in  my  head  but  I  had  libelled  my  char- 
acters. In  an  unconscious  way  I  had 
treated  them  as  the  inevitable  hotel 
gossip  treats  the  other  visitors.  Instead 
of  giving  them  characters  I  had  taken 
them  away.  So,  in  the  right  spirit,  I 
began  all  over  again  with  "This  is  a 
man"  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  with  the 
comfort  of  that  little  cheek  against  my 
arm. 

Without  moving  or  being  aware  of 
the  passing  of  time  I  worked  fast  and 
well  until  the  sun  had  left  my  spot  and 
I  had  finished  the  first  chapter.  Then 
I  got  up,  on  better  terms  with  myself 
and  in  consequence  with  the  world,  put 
25 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

my  work  in  the  dispatch-box  in  my 
room  and  swung  out  of  the  hotel.  In- 
stinctively I  went  over  the  bridge 
towards  the  place  where  John  and  Mar- 
jory had  found  me.  I  felt  that  I  must 
recover  those  treasures  and  hand  them 
back  to  the  boy.  How  could  he  go  to 
sleep  peacefully  without  bringing  an  out- 
burst of  shrill  Irish  from  Nannie  unless 
the  precious,  used  tin  of  tooth  paste 
that  would  certainly  be  of  infinite  use 
in  case  of  shipwreck  or  a  brush  with  the 
Indians  were  safely  under  his  pillow  with 
the  old  iron  hook  and  the  reel  of  cotton  ? 
The  tide  had  come  in  and  was  just 
turning.  A  fringe  of  weed  and  the 
strange  flotsam  of  the  sea  was  stretched 
in  a  long  uneven  line  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  sun-dried  sand.  The  sun  was 
26 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

ready  to  set  and  lingered  for  a  moment 
generously,  all  golden.  There  was  that 
wonderful  hush  and  softness  everywhere 
that  precedes  the  passing  of  the  sky's 
king  and  even  the  sea,  disrespectful  and 
egotistical  as  it  is,  seemed  to  be  going 
out  on  tip-toe.  A  fishing  boat,  with  a 
patched  sail  bagged  out  flatly,  went 
silently  and  smoothly  home.  Small 
birds,  with  long  narrow  beaks  and  thin 
legs,  paddled  in  the  water.  My  shadow 
moved  grotesquely  at  right  angles  all 
across  the  sand.  I  ought  to  have  been 
a  giant. 

There  was  no  sign  of  the  children  on 
the  beach  or  the  verandah  of  the  cottage. 
I  could  only  see  the  ropes  of  a  hammock 
moving  to  and  fro  regularly.  Perhaps 
"Mudder"  and  Nannie  had  taken  them 
27 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

by  trolley  car  down  to  the  village,  —  or 
did  it  call  itself  a  town  ?  And  Rose, 
who  was  obviously  a  sturdy,  fat-cheeked 
cook-maid  who  sang  to  herself  in  the 
kitchen  and  conducted  badinage  with 
the  tradesmen's  men  from  the  back 
door,  was  enjoying  a  siesta  with  the 
"Saturday  Evening  Post."  If  they  had 
been  my  children  they  certainly  would 
have  been  out.  I  was  certain  that 
they  were  out  from  the  look  of  the 
children.  They  spoke  well  for  "  Mud- 
der."  And  so  with  my  brain  working 
hard,  at  one  moment  on  my  next  chap- 
ter, at  another  on  my  sudden  decision 
to  stay  in  that  place  and  finish  the  book, 
I  went  on  keeping  a  sharp  eye  for  a 
sight  of  Jack  and  "Mudder"  and  little 
brown  legs. 

28 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

They  were  not  near  the  place  where 
they  had  found  me  in  the  morning. 
But  I  dug  up  the  invaluable  things  that 
I  had  buried  and  spread  them  out  be- 
tween my  pockets,  to  their  keen  annoy- 
ance. As  I  turned  the  bend  where  the 
rocks  mounted  higher  I  saw  Nannie's 
brave  figure  sitting  squarely  on  the 
undergrowth  and  the  two  children  in  a 
boat.  I  dodged  among  the  rocks  until 
I  came  level  with  their  backs  and  then 
went  as  quietly  as  I  could,  got  into  the 
boat  and  put  my  hands  on  imaginary  oars. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "out  we  go  to  sea,  to 
Robinson  Crusoe's  island.  Hold  fast. 
The  sea's  mountains  high  and  the  one 
who  falls  overboard  is  lost."  I  rowed 
hard  against  a  strong  current  and  a 
stiff  northeaster. 

29 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

John  tumbled  to  the  idea  immediately. 
He  jammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head 
and  gripped  the  side  of  the  boat  with 
one  hand  and  the  seat  with  the  other. 
"All  right,  Captain,"  he  shouted  loudly, 
so  that  his  voice  might  reach  me  through 
the  roar  of  the  sea,  and  his  face  took  on 
the  set  expression  of  an  old  seafaring 
man  who  realises  the  danger  and  the 
responsibility. 

Marjory  was  also  at  once  alive  to 
the  game.  She  slipped  to  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  twirled  one  arm  around  a 
leg  of  John's  and  caught  hold  of  the  side 
of  the  boat  with  a  tiny,  delicate  hand. 
"I  the  captain,"  she  said.  "You  Bill." 

If  John  had  dared,  he  would  have  let 
go  with  one  hand  and  hit  Marjory. 
He  was  seriously  upset  at  this  hideously 
30 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

feminine  remark.  "No,"  he  roared. 
"  He's  captain.  I  Bill,  and  you  Sam." 

Holding  that  if  she  wasn't  captain 
she  wouldn't  be  anything,  Marjory  made 
to  get  up  and  step  overboard  to  certain 
death.  "Look  out,  Sam,"  I  yelled. 
"Move  one  inch  and  I  put  a  bullet 
through  you." 

She  hunched  one  shoulder  and 
cowered. 

John  nodded  grimly,  as  who  should 
say,  "Serve  the  blighter  right,  too," 
and  moved  to  and  fro  as  if  tossed  by 
the  great  movement  of  the  sea. 

I  pulled  my  heart  out  for  a  whole 
minute.  "Land,"  I  cried.  "Sit  tight, 
man.  I  believe  we're  saved.  Bill,  stand 
up  and  look  for  a  safe  landing." 

He  obeyed  orders  sharply,  rocking  as 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

he  stood  and  putting  a  hand  to  his 
forehead  to  help  him  to  peer  through  the 
blinding  rain.  ;'Yes,  Captain,  there!" 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  I,  and  with  a  super- 
human effort  beached  the  almost  water- 
logged boat.  "Would  you  believe  it, 
mates?"  I  cried  gleefully.  "It's  Rob- 
inson Crusoe's  island.  Tumble  out,  you 
two,  there's  work  to  be  done  before 
night  comes." 

Out  sprang  John.  "I  build  a  hut," 
he  said. 

"Right." 

"And  I  sit  in  it,"  said  Marjory,  rising 
in  a  quite  perfect  Fifth  Avenue  manner. 

John  ignored  her.  "Give  me  the 
saw,"  he  said. 

I  gave  it  to  him.     "That  tree  first." 

He  attacked  it  vigorously,  pushing 
32 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

Marjory  away  when  she  walked  through 
it. 

"Now,  Sam,  stand  there  and  look 
out  for  lions  and  tigers  while  I  make  a 
fire.  Do  you  see  anything?" 

"Yes,  Nannie." 

"That's  not  Nannie,"  scoffed  John. 
"That's  a  porpoise." 

And  Marjory  laughed. 

I  pulled  an  old  piece  of  sacking,  — 
or  it  may  have  been  a  shirt,  —  from  the 
boat  and  put  a  match  to  it.  Fool ! 
The  sight  of  the  actual  instantly  de- 
stroyed the  imaginative.  John  dropped 
his  metaphorical  saw  and  came  to  watch 
the  flame,  and  Marjory  left  her  lookout 
and  ran  forward.  "Burn  this,  too," 
she  cried  and  twisted  off  her  straw  hat. 

The  game  was  over. 
33 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  rescued  the  hat  and  saved  a  spank- 
ing for  Brown-legs  and  sat  down  with 
my  back  against  the  boat.  The  west 
had  become  all  red  and  gold  and  the 
sea  was  stained  in  great  patches.  The 
small,  long-legged  birds  still  paddled. 
I  saw  the  faint  thin  half  circle  of  a  slim 
new  moon  lying  on  its  back. 

And  while  the  light  was  fading  I  told 
my  friends  a  story,  sitting  between  them, 
holding  two  sticky  hands.  But  just  before 
I  had  finished  it  a  clear  sweet  voice  came 
to  us  calling  "John  —  Marjory,"  and 
they  both  struggled  eagerly  to  their  feet 
and  ran  away  from  me  without  a  word. 

I   sat  on  with  my  back  to  the  boat 
till  all  the  day  had  gone  and  the  angel 
of  night  had  lit  the  lamp  in  the  moon, 
—  wishing  and  wishing. 
34 


Ill 

THE  place  continued  to  hold  me. 
To  my  surprise  and  relief  the 
spirit  of  search  and  wander  had  lost  me 
or  had  gone  off  to  punish  some  other 
lonely  man  whose  life  was  empty.  I 
was  working  again  with  enthusiasm. 
Three  days  slipped  off  the  calendar 
almost  before  I  realised  that  they  had 
come.  I  got  up  early  and  wrote  till 
breakfast,  and  after  it  till  half  past 
eleven.  Then  I  went  out  and  made 
castles  in  the  sand  for  John  and  Marjory 
until  Nannie  gathered  them  in  to  lunch. 
In  the  afternoon  I  wrote  again  till  five 
35 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

o'clock  and  rejoined  the  babies  for 
further  games  or  stories.  And  at  night, 
up  in  my  bedroom,  only  luckily  just  in 
ear-shot  of  the  tortured  piano,  I  buried 
myself  in  the  new  book  till  long  after 
everybody  in  the  hotel  was  in  bed  and 
asleep,  and  my  small  room  reeked  of 
tobacco.  It  was  intensely  still  and  quiet 
at  night  except  for  the  regular  pulsing 
of  an  engine  somewhere  near. 

I  found  myself  continually  wonder- 
ing why  it  was  that  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  advent  of  these  two  little 
beings,  who  were,  after  all,  not  much 
different  from  dozens  of  others  whom  I 
knew  much  better  and  to  some  of  whom 
I  was  connected  by  ties  of  blood,  should 
have  dispelled  my  loneliness.  Very 
vaguely  and  without  any  reason  it 
36 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

seemed  to  me  that  they  were  uncon- 
sciously only  the  signals  of  someone  in 
distress,  someone  equally  lonely  and  at 
a  loose  end ;  someone  who  had  not 
found  content  or  happiness  or  the  glory 
of  love.  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was 
waiting,  that  I  was  going  to  be  called 
upon  to  accept  a  great  responsibility, 
to  assume  a  proprietorship  of  human  life 
that  was  the  thing  most  needed  by  me 
to  make  my  own  life  good  and  big  and 
real.  It  was  all,  at  that  time,  phantom- 
like  and  untranslatable.  I  couldn't 
grasp  it  or  pin  it  down.  But  I  was 
curiously  satisfied  and  soothed  and 
quieted.  I  seemed  to  be  like  a  man 
who  had  been  thrown  on  what  he  sup- 
posed was  a  desert  island  and  just  at 
the  time  when  his  craving  for  human 
37 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

intercourse  has  led  him  almost  up  to 
the  moment  when  he  ended  an  aimless 
and  miserable  life  a  bunch  of  flowers 
had  been  thrown  into  his  cave  with  the 
scent  of  hope  and  a  cry  for  help  upon 
them. 

My  desire  to  see  and  meet  the  mother 
of  John  and  Marjory  grew  stronger  and 
stronger  as  the  days  went  by.  Several 
times  I  saw  the  slight  sweet  figure  with 
the  golden  head  bend  over  the  children 
on  the  verandah,  but  never  closer  than 
that.  The  babies  talked  about  "Mud- 
der"  continually.  She  was  their  heroine 
and  always  the  mere  sound  of  her  voice 
sent  them  to  their  feet  and  away.  There 
was  no  mention  of  the  word  father. 
To  them  as  well  as,  oddly  enough,  to 
38 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

me  such  a  person  had  no  existence.  It 
was  all  very  curious. 

But  I  asked  them  no  questions,  put 
them  through  no  cross-examination.  I 
played  with  them  and  was  well  content 
to  wait.  In  my  room  in  the  hotel 
there  already  seemed  to  be  three 
bunches  of  flowers,  and  all  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  scent  of  hope  and  always 
I  could  feel  as  plainly  as  though  I  were 
a  Marconi  operator  the  call  for  help. 

My  God,  who  was  readier  than  I  to 
respond  ?  Only  the  man  who  himself 
needs  help  can  understand  the  urgency 
of  such  a  call.  In  a  sort  of  way  I 
gathered  all  my  strength  together,  stood 
watching  and  waiting  all  strung  into 
an  eager  alertness,  ready  to  go  to  the 
rescue  at  a  moment's  notice.  In  no 
39 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

other  way  can  I  describe  the  peculiar 
feelings  that  pervaded  me  during  those 
three  golden  days  of  work  and  play. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  fourth 
evening. 

I  worked  rather  later  than  usual, 
being  vitally  interested  and  absorbed  in 
a  close  analysis  of  the  character  of  a 
man  who  should  have  been  great  if  he 
had  not  suffered  from  an  incurable  de- 
sire to  be  popular.  I  hurried  across 
the  sands  in  a  fading  light.  I  had  made 
an  appointment  at  the  boat.  I  was 
more  than  an  hour  late.  The  children 
were  not  there,  nor  was  there  any  sign 
of  them.  I  went  nearer  to  the  house 
than  I  had  ever  been  before.  I  could 
see  no  one.  There  was  an  engine  stand- 
ing on  the  rail  of  the  verandah  and  a 
40 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

white  bear  with  one  ear  gone  lying  in  a 
bush.  Someone  was  singing  in  the 
kitchen. 

I  hunted  about,  hoping  that  I  should 
come  suddenly  on  two  small  crouching 
bodies  and  four  large  dancing  eyes  hid- 
ing from  me.  I  slipped  about  among 
banks  of  dry  sand  and  tangled  under- 
growth. But  there  were  no  babies.  I 
was  only  half  amused  at  the  depth  of 
my  disappointment.  Seeing  no  sign  of 
the  bulky  figure  of  the  nurse  I  told 
myself  that  they  had  all  gone  down  to 
the  village. 

I  had  never  been  beyond  the  boat. 
I  went  that  way  then,  a  jumble  of 
thoughts  in  my  head,  —  work  and  the 
construction  of  it ;  what  I  should  be 
teaching  those  two  children  if  they  had 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

been  mine ;  whether  I  ought  to  send  a 
cable  to  my  agent  in  London  giving 
him  my  address ;  whether  if  I  had  a 
son  like  John  I  should  put  him  through 
drills  and  make  him  understand  some- 
thing of  discipline.  And  all  the  while  I 
was  going  from  rock  to  rock  like  a  goat 
and  absorbing  the  exquisite  softness  of 
the  colour  of  the  sky  that  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  done  with  pastels 
by  a  master  hand.  And  I  remember 
that  I  was  urged  on  by  a  feeling  of  in- 
describable eagerness  and  exhilaration, 
like  that  which  must  pervade  a  tired  man 
who  stumbles  his  way  towards  home. 

I  rounded  a  sharp  bend  and  stopped. 

Within  twenty  yards  of  me  I  saw  a 
girl  with  a  golden  head  and  a  round 
white  neck  and  a  white  frock  and  shoes, 
42 


There  was  an  exquisite,  a  bewildering  femininity 
all  about  her.     Page  43. 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

sitting  on  a  ledge.  One  arm  was  around 
Marjory,  who  lay  out  asleep  with  her 
cheek  against  a  breast  and  her  little 
brown  knees  all  bare.  John  was  lying 
across  her  lap  with  his  fair  head  in  the 
dip  of  it,  his  eyes  fast  shut. 

The  mother's  profile  was  cut  against 
the  cloudless  sky,  and  she  was  looking 
out  and  out  into  space,  into  to-morrow, 
and  there  was  a  little  smile  round  her 
lips.  There  was  an  exquisite,  a  be- 
wildering femininity  all  about  her,  like 
a  halo,  a  sweet  essence  of  motherliness, 
even  in  the  lines  and  curves  of  her  that 
were  so  young  and  lovely.  There  was 
a  certain  strength  about  her,  too,  in 
the  thoroughbred  cut  of  her  nose  and 
chin  and  the  wideness  of  her  blue  eyes. 

I  stood  there,  holding  my  breath. 
43 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

All  my  blood  raced  through  me  and  my 
heart  seemed  to  tumble.  My  search 
and  my  wanderings  were  over.  I  had 
arrived.  I  knew  it  so  surely  as  I  knew 
that  the  sun  had  almost  set  and  that 
those  children  had  held  me  for  a  reason 
in  that  place.  She  might  have  been 
my  wife  and  the  mother  of  my  children. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  before 
she  turned  her  face  round  and  saw  me. 
But  when  she  did  there  was  an  instant 
welcome  in  her  eyes.  No  surprise,  no 
embarrassment,  nothing  but  a  great 
warm,  quiet  welcome.  I  might  have 
been  her  husband. 

I  went  forward  softly,  my  rubber 
shoes  silent  on  the  smooth  brown,  al- 
most even,  rock.  "They're  tired,"  I 
whispered. 

44 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

And  she  nodded. 

"I  was  to  have  met  them  at  the 
boat,  but  I  worked  without  watching 
the  time." 

"They  waited  and  were  very  disap- 
pointed, so  I  took  them  for  a  scramble." 

I  sat  down  and  Marjory  opened  her 
eyes  for  an  instant,  put  a  little  hand  on 
my  arm  and  went  to  sleep  again,  suck- 
ing a  finger. 

Nothing  more  was  said. 

I  watched  the  light  fade  slowly  and 
saw  the  faint  breeze  fall  away  and 
heard  the  song  of  the  sea  rise  up  to  greet 
the  young  moon.  And  an  early  star 
came  out,  not  wholly  alight  yet,  and 
peace  and  security  touched  my  soul. 

Presently  John  stretched  and  yawned 
and  rubbed  his  fists  into  his  eyes  and 
45 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

gathered   himself  up   and  put  his   arms 
tight  round  his  mother's  neck. 

She  laughed  and  said,  "Look." 

When  he  saw  me  he  frowned  a  little 
and  said  after  a  pause:  "Why  don't 
you  like  me  ?" 

I  explained  that  I  did  and  the  reason 
why  I  hadn't  been  in  time.  Then  he 
climbed  over  his  mother,  waking  the  little 
girl  on  his  impetuous  way,  and  kissed  me. 

It  was  good. 

I  carried  Marjory  home  on  my 
shoulder,  holding  John's  hand,  and  we 
all  talked  together.  On  the  step  of  the 
verandah  I  stopped  short  and  lowered 
my  little  burden  and  delivered  her  up. 
Nannie  came  out  and  the  babies  were 
captured.  John  fell  at  the  door,  but 
didn't  cry. 

46 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

The  mother  and  I  stood  face  to  face 
silently.  She  looked  very  white  and 
slight. 

I  said,  "Are  you  doing  anything  to- 
night after  dinner?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

"May  I  come  to  talk  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

I  turned  back  three  or  four  times  on 
my  way  across  the  wet  sand.  I  could 
see  her  standing  on  the  verandah  watch- 
ing me  go. 

It  seemed  wrong  and  unnatural  to  be 
walking  away  from  that  house  and  that 
woman  and  those  babies. 


47 


IV 

LOOKING  back,  I  can  see  myself 
racing  up  to  my  room,  plunging  into 
a  cold  bath  with  the  tap  running  and 
changing  into  a  dinner  jacket.  I  can 
see  my  face  looking  as  though  a  mask 
had  fallen  away  from  it  and  all  my 
actions  quick  and  energetic  and  gay. 
My  mind,  I  remember,  was  like  a  child's. 
Something  good  had  happened.  I  was 
unaccountably  happy.  I  asked  myself 
no  questions.  I  looked  no  further  than 
the  moment,  the  hour.  I  had  some- 
thing delightful  to  do  presently.  The 
whole  complexion  of  my  life  had  changed. 
48 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  didn't,  in  my  usual  way,  stop  to 
analyse.  I  just  seemed  to  be  re- 
charged, revitalised,  renewed.  I  revelled 
in  a  new  sense  of  living  and  being 
alive.  I  felt  extraordinarily  young  and 
unsophisticated. 

I  noticed  that  the  dining-room  was 
not  so  full  that  night.  The  season  was 
drawing  to  a  close  and  already  many 
tables  were  empty,  and  some  of  the 
white-frocked  waitresses  had  gone.  I 
asked  the  one  who  made  a  pattern  of 
small  dishes  on  my  table  when  the 
hotel  closed,  and  she  told  me  at  the 
end  of  the  first  week  of  September  — 
eight  days.  It  didn't  matter.  I  would 
find  another  place  that  would  give  me 
a  bedroom.  I  could  write  anywhere, 
with  my  face  to  the  sun  and  my  book  on 
49 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

my  knee.  I  needed  no  elaborate  study 
lined  with  encyclopaedias  that  I  should 
never  consult,  elaborate  reading  lamps 
and  a  desk  covered  with  brass  pen 
trays  and  smart  blotting  pads  cornered 
with  silver.  I  had  got  over  that  phase, 
and  had  become  a  workman  instead  of 
a  writer.  A  pencil,  a  block  and  sin- 
cerity, —  that's  all  I  needed  for  my  job, 
with  patience  and  a  great  economy  of 
words. 

I  hurried  through  dinner  and  went 
out  on  the  wide  verandah  and  walked 
up  and  down,  smoking  a  cigar.  The 
early  diners  were  sitting  about  in  groups, 
rocking  to  and  fro  with  the  restlessness 
peculiar  to  Americans. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night.  The  sky 
was  cloudless  and  transparent  and  the 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

moon,  like  polished  silver,  lay  a  little 
shyly  among  a  very  orgy  of  stars.  Half 
a  dozen  motor  cars  were  drawn  up  on 
a  wide  space  of  gravel  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  and  the  cigarettes  of  two  of  the 
chauffeurs  made  small  blinking  spots  of 
light.  In  a  cottage  somewhere  near  a 
woman  was  singing  in  a  high  soprano, 
and  away  in  the  distance  the  irritating 
clang  of  a  train's  raucous  bell  was  blown 
upon  the  soft  breeze.  There  was  a 
strong  refreshing  smell  of  the  sea. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  keep  to  the 
hotel.  I  felt  myself  drawn  towards  the 
cottage  where,  by  this  time,  John  and 
Marjory  were  asleep  with  their  fair 
heads  dented  into  their  pillows,  and 
somewhere  near,  ready  for  the  morning, 
the  favourite  book  or  toy  of  the  moment. 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

So  I  went  along  the  white  road  across 
which  lights  from  the  houses  on  each 
side  were  flung,  and  over  the  wooden 
bridge  and  down  to  the  long  stretch  of 
sand.  The  laugh  of  a  girl  who  was 
sitting  with  a  man  filtered  into  the  air. 
The  wash  of  the  sea  was  ceaseless. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  verandah  of 
the  cottage.  I  could  see  a  light  in  the 
sitting-room  through  the  screened  door 
and  windows.  But  just  as  I  hesitated, 
wondering  whether  I  had  arrived  too 
soon,  the  door  opened  and  she  came 
out.  I  might  have  called  her. 

She  leant  over  and  looked  down  on 
me,  standing  ankle  deep  in  dry  sand. 
"I've  finished  dinner,"  she  said,  answer- 
ing my  thoughts,  and  I  went  up,  glanc- 
ing into  the  hall  sitting-room,  as  I 
5* 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

passed,  with  its  uncovered  wood  walls 
and  staircase  and  stone  fireplace,  with 
big  screen  in  front.  I  arranged  the 
cushions  in  the  hammock  and  held  it 
while  she  climbed  into  it.  We  might 
have  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 

"Marjory  has  a  little  fever  to-night," 
she  said. 

"Nothing  serious?" 

"Oh,  no,  a  little  overtired,  perhaps. 
Children  often  get  it,  and  their  tempera- 
ture runs  up  alarmingly.  A  little  dose 
puts  them  right."  She  seemed  to  know 
that  I  had  never  possessed  a  child. 

I   sat  on   the   ledge  of  the  verandah 
and  dropped  my  hat  into  a  chair.     The  • 
light  from    the  sitting-room  fell  on  her 
golden    head    and    the    white    of     her 
neck. 

53 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"Do  they  call  you  Jack  or  John?" 
she  asked. 

"How  did  you  know  that  I'm  a  John  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  just  did.  I  knew 
when  I  saw  you  coming  along  the  sands 
two  days  before  you  met  the  babies. 
I  called  the  boy  John  because  I  knew 
that  some  day  I  should  see  you  coming 
along  the  sands  to  speak  to  them." 

A  very  warm  feeling  settled  round 
my  heart  as  though  a  precious  hand  had 
touched  it  and  claimed  it  forever.  And 
for  some  time  we  sat  quite  quietly  look- 
ing into  each  other's  eyes,  without  self- 
consciousness  or  affectation,  but  with  a 
sort  of  childlike  gladness  and  trust  and 
security. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  my  name," 
she  said. 

54 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  knew  the  name  by  which  I  would 
have  given  all  I  possessed  to  call  her. 
It  was  wife.  "I've  always  called  you 
'Mudder'  as  the  babies  do." 

"It's  Joan.  Do  you  like  it?  Is  it 
right?" 

"Perfectly  right,"  I  said. 

I  suppose  it  was  odd  that  we  didn't 
give  each  other  our  surnames.  Some- 
how then  they  didn't  matter,  any  more 
than  such  unnecessary  things  do  to 
children.  We  had  met.  That  was  the 
whole  thing  that  mattered  to  us  both. 
I  suppose  it  was  odd  that  we  didn't 
talk  about  ourselves  any  more,  and  go 
into  details  as  to  family  and  character- 
istics, —  as  we  wished  them  to  appear, 
—  and  describe  the  unhappiness  that 
we  had  both  gone  through  as  people 
55 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

describe  the  symptoms  of  illnesses.  But 
somehow  ego  disappeared,  or  at  any 
rate  the  expression  of  it.  I  didn't  care 
who  her  people  were,  or  where  she  had 
been  born  and  educated,  or  where  she 
had  lived  before  I  found  her.  Nor  did 
she  wish  to  know  to  whom  I  was  related 
in  England,  whether  I  was  Eton  and 
Oxford,  or  whether  my  public  school  was 
unknown  to  polite  society  or  my  uni- 
versity the  streets.  I  was  hers,  and  she 
was  mine,  and  that  was  all.  We  ac- 
cepted each  other.  It  was  neither  un- 
canny or  psychic,  nor  anything  with  a 
far-fetched  name  that  dictionaries  have 
some  difficulty  in  defining,  or  that 
people  are  fond  of  using  indiscriminately 
about  any  rather  exceptional  or  uncon- 
ventional case.  It  was  simply  natural, 
56 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

—  at  any  rate  to  us.  All  we  both  felt 
was  glad  and  secure  and  wholly  trustful 
and  beautifully,  perhaps  pathetically, 
childlike.  Sooner  or  later  we  should  be 
brought  to  the  realization  of  the  un- 
avoidable fact  that  we  were  man  and 
woman,  with  urgent  desires,  and  the 
need  to  touch.  Sooner  or  later  we 
should  be  forced  to  face  nature,  who 
has  no  mercy,  and  makes  no  exceptions 
and  ignores  all  rules  and  regulations 
with  the  most  insolent  triumph,  and 
glories  in  her  power. 

But  not  then,  not  yet.  Mutually 
and  even  unconsciously  we  seemed  to 
agree  at  once  to  take  the  present  into 
our  arms  and  leave  the  future  to  look 
after  itself.  We  were  neither  of  us,  so 
it  seems  to  me  as  I  look  back,  afraid  of 
57 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

whatever  the  future  might  have  in  store 
for  us.  The  present  was  so  good,  so 
wonderful,  so  tremendous  that  we  did 
not  wish  to  recover  from  it;  we  wanted 
to  spread  it  out.  That,  in  itself,  showed 
me,  as  plainly  as  it  showed  her,  with- 
out words  or  explanations,  that  unhap- 
piness  and  discontent  and  unfulfilment 
had  dogged  our  heels. 

And  so  for  a  long  time  we  sat  and 
chatted  about  the  babies,  and  the  place 
and  the  people  and  the  colour  of 
the  sky  when  the  sun  set  and  a  hun- 
dred and  one  impersonal  things,  with 
laughter. 

Once  I  saw  the  two  servants  peer  out 

through  the  screened  window  and  dodge 

away    when    they    saw    me    looking.     I 

was  not  annoyed  or  surprised  or  made 

58 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

self-conscious.  Why  shouldn't  they 
peer  ?  I  was  in  my  right  place. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  she  sat 
up  and  slipped  suddenly  out  of  the 
hammock.  "As  a  rule  I  go  to  bed 
about  half  past  nine,"  she  said.  "It 
must  be  eleven  o'clock." 

I  told  her  the  time  and  she  held  out 
her  hand  and  said  :  "Good  night.  Bring 
your  work  here  in  the  morning.  Dic- 
tate to  me  or  something.  I  want  to 
help." 

I  picked  ,up  her  absurdly  small  hand- 
kerchief and  held  the  door  open.  She 
went  in  and  locked  it  and  waved  her 
hand.  I  waited  till  she  turned  out  the 
light  and  I  heard  her  go  upstairs,  and 
then  I  went  away,  whistling  like  a  boy. 

The  night  watchman  unbolted  the 
59 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

door  of  the  hotel  for  me  and  we  stood 
talking  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  half-lit 
hall.  He  said  that  he  slept  perfectly 
well  during  the  day  and  was  quite  used 
to  lonely  night  work.  I  wondered  what 
sort  of  stuff  he  was  made  of  and  envied 
him  his  stolid  temperament,  gave  him  a 
cigar  and  went  upstairs  to  my  empty 
room. 

I  didn't  smoke  and  read  in  bed  that 
night.  I  fell  asleep  almost  as  soon  as  my 
head  touched  the  pillow  and  dreamed 
of  Joan  and  the  babies  and  home. 

Where  they  were  was  home. 


60 


1WAS  down  to  breakfast  before  any- 
body else  was  about.  And  as  I  ate 
my  eggs  with  the  sun  pouring  into  the 
many  windows  of  the  long  dining-room 
the  waitress  told  me,  having  nothing  else 
to  do,  that  she  was  a  school  teacher 
somewhere  near  Boston  who  spent  her 
holidays  making  a  little  money  and  get- 
ting sea  air  and  bathing.  She  told  me 
also  that  the  three  shock-headed  bell 
boys  were  college  men  who  did  the  same 
thing  for  the  same  purpose.  This  was 
new  to  me  and  surprising.  I  could 
only  conceive  having  my  shaving  water 
61 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

brought  into  my  bedroom  by  an  under- 
graduate of  Oxford,  or  giving  my  shoes 
to  be  cleaned  to  a  Cambridge  man  in 
the  millennium.  The  snobbishness  of  the 
average  Englishman  would  have  received 
a  nasty  jar  at  the  bare  thought  of  an 
Oxford  or  Cambridge  man  doing  any- 
thing useful.  It  appealed  to  me,  al- 
though I  don't  profess  not  to  be  a  snob 
in  a  hundred  ways,  as  altogether  ad- 
mirable. How  splendid  for  English 
parents  if  their  immaculate  and  penni- 
less sons  refused  to  be  parasites  during 
the  vacations  and  put  their  hands  to 
honest  labour  for  a  change. 

The    waitress    had    discovered    me    as 

the  author  of  several  books  that  she  had 

read  and  with  a  splendid  frankness  and 

a    perfectly    unhidden    interest    in    me 

62 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

made  several  drastic  criticisms.  But  she 
certainly  gave  me  a  better  half  of  grape- 
fruit than  usual. 

I  went  out  as  quickly  as  I  could  get 
away  and  walked  round  to  a  shack 
where  I  had  noticed  that  there  were 
cut  flowers  for  sale.  I  bought  a  large 
mixed  bunch  and  with  my  book  and 
pencil  dashed  off  to  the  cottage. 

I  could  hear  the  babies  talking  and 
walking  above  and  Joan's  clear  sweet 
voice  chiming  in.  But  there  was  no 
one  in  the  sitting-room.  I  went  in 
quietly  and  opened  a  door  that  I 
imagined  led  to  the  kitchen.  A  round- 
faced,  fresh-looking  girl  with  dark  hair 
and  Irish  eyes  was  doing  something  at 
the  gas-stove. 

I  said,  "Good  morning,  Rose.  Will 
63 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

you  please  give  me  a  jug  of  water  ?  I 
want  to  put  these  flowers  on  the  break- 
fast table." 

She  looked  at  me  with  great  round 
eyes  and  wide-open  mouth  for  a  long 
moment,  then  said,  "I  will,"  and  did  so. 
But  it  was  with  an  amused-astonished 
air  of  "Well  Oi'm  jiggered!" 

I  put  the  flowers  in  the  centre  of  the 
table.  On  my  way  out  I  saw,  subcon- 
sciously, that  the  hat  pegs  were  devoid 
of  a  man's  hats.  I  took  a  chair  into  a 
place  on  the  verandah  where  the  sun 
came,  read  over  my  last  chapter  and 
fell  to  work. 

Presently  the  two  children,  who  had, 

I  supposed,  breakfasted  in  the  nursery, 

ran  out.     They  couldn't  see  me  because 

I  was  behind  the  angle  of  the  house  and 

64 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

so  scurried  off  to  the  beach,  big  with 
ideas.  A  little  later  I  saw  Joan  come 
down  into  the  hall.  She  was  singing 
and  was  all  in  white  with  a  blue  silk 
sweater.  She  drew  up  and  looked 
searchingly  at  the  flowers  as  though 
reading  the  message  that  I  had  asked 
them  to  deliver.  Then  she  turned  round, 
saw  me,  smiled,  waved  her  hand  and 
made  a  movement  as  though  writing. 

I  waved  mine  and  returned  to  work. 

My  pen  was  amazingly  kinder  and  more 
human.  The  bitterness  and  satire  had 
gone  out  of  it.  I  found  myself  dealing 
with  normal  people  in  a  normal  way,  —  no 
longer  of  abnormal  types,  with  cruelty. 

When    I   looked   up    again   Joan   was 
sitting  near  by,   with  her  back  to  the 
sun,  busily  cross-stitching. 
65 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

John  must  have  seen  me  from  the 
beach  because  he  came  up  out  of  breath 
shouting  "Hullo,  Man!"  But  Joan  in- 
tercepted him  deftly,  held  him  tight 
and  whispered:  "Sssh,  he's  writing. 
Be  a  good  boy  and  go  to  the  boat. 
Mudder  and  Man  will  come  down  in 
a  little  while  and  have  a  fine  game  with 
you." 

There  was  a  little  struggle  and  a 
shout  and  more  whispering  and  then 
silence.  I  tilted  my  chair  forward  and 
looked  over  the  verandah.  Master  John 
was  walking  slowly  back  with  his  chin  a 
little  cocked  up  and  eyebrows  raised. 
I  knew  what  he  was  thinking,  —  "A 
funny  man  to  sit  and  write  when  he 
might  be  playing  with  me  in  a  real 
boat." 

66 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  put  down  my  book  at  eleven  o'clock. 

"I  love  flowers  in  the  house,  John," 
said  Joan. 

"I  know  you  do,"  I  said. 

"I  slept  so  well  last  night." 

"So  did  I." 

"What  are  you  writing?" 

"My  new  novel  for  the  spring." 

"What's  it  about?" 

"Oh,  —  life  and  death  —  and  love." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  and  smiled  and 
took  my  book  and  got  up.  "Come  to 
the  babies,  John,"  she  said.  "But  wait 
a  minute."  With  a  swift  movement  she 
went  round  the  house  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  opened  a  drawer  in  the  table. 
But  before  she  put  the  book  into  it, 
she  held  it  to  her  lips  for  a  moment  and 
against  her  breast.  Then  she  came  out 
67 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  I  took  her  hand  and  we  scrambled 
down  the  bank  and  over  the  sands  to 
the  boat. 

There  was  no  storm  at  sea  that 
morning. 

We  sailed  across  three  thousand  miles 
of  water  to  England.  John  and  Mar- 
jory had  talked  of  nothing  but  England 
for  two  days,  it  appeared,  and  then  we 
took  the  train,  —  it  was  a  most  elastic 
and  ubiquitous  boat, --to  the  country 
and  flew  up  the  hill  in  an  aeroplane  to 
my  house,  where  the  big  dog  was,  and 
where  the  cows  were  grazing  in  the 
meadow,  flicking  their  anaemic  tails  to 
keep  the  persistent  flies  away. 

"Do  you  kill  a  cow  to  get  the  milk?" 
asked  John. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Marjory. 
68 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

The  children  went  back  with  Nannie. 
Joan  and  I  lingered  in  the  sun.  A 
party  of  crows  flopped  heavily  over  our 
heads.  Nobody's  dog  came  and  looked 
at  us  from  a  little  distance,  gave  the 
suspicion  of  a  wag  in  reply  to  the  flip 
of  my  fingers  and  made  off.  The  sand 
was  warm  through  my  shoes. 

"Tell  me  about  your  house,"  said 
Joan. 

"You  tell  me,"  I  laughed,  imitating 
John,  who  invariably  asked  you  to  give 
him  all  the  details  of  the  thing  about 
which  you  had  asked  him. 

She  stopped  and  put  a  white-shoed 
foot  on  a  piece  of  brown  rock  with  her 
eyes  straight  ahead  as  though  looking 
at  a  picture  that  she  knew  by  heart. 
Her  wide-brimmed  Panama  hat  shaded 
69 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

all  her  face  except  her  chin  on  which 
there  was  a  splash  of  sun.  The  collar 
of  her  silk  shirt  was  cut  low  and  there 
were  freckles  round  her  ears.  Her  lines 
were  so  slight  and  sweet  that  she  might 
have  been  a  sister  to  those  babies. 

"It  has  a  thickly  thatched  roof," 
she  said,  "that  hangs  over  the  windows 
like  bushy  eyebrows.  The  chimneys  are 
stubby  and  fat  and  when  the  smoke 
comes  out  on  a  windless  day  it  looks 
like  cotton  wool.  The  walls  are  all 
sorts  of  colours, -- bits  of  worn  red  and 
touches  of  yellow  and  green,  mossy 
green,  and  almost  white  where  the  rain 
has  soaked  it.  The  door  is  narrow  and 
warm  with  an  old  oak  beam  above  it 
and  all  the  windows  have  small  panes 
of  leaded  glass.  The  paths  are  bricked 
70 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  uneven  and  there  are  roses  every- 
where and  hollyhocks  with  round 
shoulders,  like  tall  boys  who  have  out- 
grown their  strength.  And  all  round 
it,  but  not  too  near,  there  are  trees 
with  many  arms  all  loaded  with  leaves 
and  between  the  gaps  great  stretches  of 
country  lie  below  in  patterns.  ...  Is 
that  right?" 

"Yes;    how  did  you  know?" 
"I've     always     known,     John,"     she 
answered. 

She  turned  round  and  faced  me  on 
the  step  of  the  verandah.  Her  wide- 
apart  blue  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
"I've  often  looked  in  at  the  window 
behind  which  the  light  burns  very  late 
every  night  and  seen  you  bending  over 
a  desk  with  your  shiny  head  in  your 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

hand.  .  .  .  You've  been  very  lonely, 
haven't  you,  John?" 

"Hideously  lonely,  Joan,"  I  said. 

"And  so  have  I  —  indescribably  — 
terribly." 

I  held  out  my  hand  and  she  took  it 
and  put  it  against  her  breast. 

Two  days  before  the  hotel  closed  I 
had  been  working  steadily  on  Joan's 
verandah  all  the  afternoon.  A  torrent 
of  rain  had  fallen  the  night  before  and 
had  made  the  few  remaining  flowers  in 
the  gardens  of  the  shut-up  bungalows 
all  round  my  hotel  look  very  sagged. 
The  chalky  roads  were  soft  and  sticky 
and  heavy  clouds  skidded  across  a  kindly 
disposed  sun. 

I  had  been  playing  train  with  the 
72 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

babies  and  making  myself  into  a  tunnel 
by  the  simple  process  of  standing  with 
my  legs  far  apart,  —  they  crawled 
through  making  sounds  like  "Iland- 
ilang"  in  imitation  of  an  engine's  bell, 
—  and  left  to  go  back  to  dinner  when 
the  light  had  almost  gone.  I  saw  a 
man  drive  up  in  a  small  motor  wagon 
which  delivered  groceries.  I  don't  know 
why  I  stopped.  Instinct,  I  suppose,  or 
perhaps  a  feeling  that  it  was  my  right 
and  privilege  to  stand  by  that  cottage 
in  which  there  were  only  women  and 
children.  At  any  rate  I  went  back 
within  ear-shot  of  the  kitchen  door  and 
heard  that  man  say  angrily  that  if  his 
bill  wasn't  paid  by  the  next  day  he 
wouldn't  deliver  anything  else.  "It's 
two  months  in  arrears,"  he  said,  "and  I 
73 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

can't  afford  to  let  it  run.  Besides,  I've 
been  stung  before  by  visitors  and  I'm 
taking  no  chances." 

I  didn't  hear  what  Rose  said  but  I 
followed  the  man  to  his  machine. 
"Have  you  got  your  bill  with  you?"  I 
asked. 

"No,  but  I  can  give  you  the  amount." 

I  wrote  it  down  with  his  name  and 
address.  "All  right.  I'll  look  in  to- 
night and  write  you  a  cheque." 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Thompson's  brother?" 
His  tone  was  polite. 

"My  cheque's  good,"  I  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard 
Joan's  name. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  cranked  up 
and  drove  off. 

I  had  dinner  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
74 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

took  a  trolley  car  into  the  town  and 
having  paid  his  bill  and  obtained  a 
receipt,  went  into  a  big  store  where  meat 
and  vegetables  were  sold  and  asked 
for  Mrs.  Thompson's  account.  I  had 
struck  the  right  place,  which  wasn't 
extraordinary  because  it  was  the  only 
large  shop  of  the  kind,  and  paid  there 
too,  pocketing  the  receipt.  I  then  found 
a  fish  shop  and  a  chemist's.  The  name 
of  Thompson  was  unknown  to  them 
both.  I  searched  further.  There  were 
several  fish  shops  and  many  chemists, 
but  before  I  left  the  town  I  had  found 
the  right  ones  and  paid  them  to  date. 
In  each  case  my  cheque  on  a  well-known 
New  York  bank  was  accepted  without 
question.  The  men  may  have  looked 
curiously  at  me.  I  didn't  notice.  What 
75 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

did  it  matter  to  me  what  Joan's  sur- 
name was  ?  She  was  mine. 

When  I  reached  the  cottage  it  was 
an  hour  and  a  half  later  than  I  had 
ever  been  there  before  in  the  evening. 
Joan  was  walking  about  on  the  uneven 
path  alongside  the  house,  anxiously, 
muffled  in  an  overcoat.  It  was  damp 
though  not  cold ;  cheerless  and  there 
were  no  stars.  She  ran  towards  me 
when  she  heard  my  step  and  whistle. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this 
time?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  never  do  this 
again,  John.  I  can't  stand  it.  I've 
never  been  so  ...  so  nervous  and 
frightened  before.  I  thought  something 
must  have  happened  to  you." 

My  God,  how  good  that  was  to  hear ! 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  I  said.  I  could 
76 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

hear    my   heart   thumping.     "I    had    to 
go  down  to  the  town." 

"The  town?" 

:<Yes."  I  put  the  receipts  into  her 
pocket. 

She  led  the  way  into  the  cottage. 
The  elementary  electric  lights  were 
turned  off.  Four  candles  were  burning 
on  the  wide  mantel-board.  The  farther 
end  of  the  room  was  in  shadow.  My 
manuscript  book  with  the  pencil  be- 
tween its  pages  had  been  placed  on  a 
small  table  between  two  rocking  chairs. 
In  one  of  them  her  work  was  lying,  as 
though  it  had  been  thrown  there.  A 
tangle  of  blue  silk  thread  lay  on  the 
floor.  The  sound  of  voices  came  from 
the  kitchen  and  an  occasional  cackle  of 
women's  laughter. 

77 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

This  place  was  home. 
"May  I  read  you  my  last  chapter?" 
"I  want  you  to,"  she  said  and  slipped 
off  her  coat.     I  took  it  and  was  going 
to  hang  it  up  on  the  pegs  when  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  drew  the  receipts  out 
of  the  pocket.     "What  are  .  .  ." 

When  I  came  into  the  light  again  she 
looked  at  me  and  the  most  beautiful 
smile  was  on  her  face. 

"John,"  she  said.     "John!" 
She  came  forward  and  into  my  arms 
and    kissed    my    lips.     I    clutched    her 
tight   and   kissed   her   mouth    and   fore- 
head and  eyes,  feeling  the  thump  of  her 
heart,   the   warmth   of   her   limbs.     The 
scent    of    her    hair    went    to    my    brain. 
Every  bird  on  the  earth  seemed  to  break 
into  song  and  the  room  to  be  flooded 
78 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

with  a  blinding  light.  My  blood  burned 
and  I  trembled  with  a  sudden  wave  of 
vitality,  a  great  passionate  thrill  of  love 
and  desire. 

And  presently  I  stood  back,  having 
poured  out  incoherent,  inarticulate 
words.  Her  eyes  were  alight  and  both 
hands  were  on  her  breasts.  There  was 
something  amazingly  ethereal  and 
mediaeval  about  her  at  that  moment, 
and  spiritual. 

"You  used  to  kiss  me  like  that  and 
say  those  things  to  me  when  we  were 
together  before,  John,"  she  said. 

"When?"  I  asked,  half  bewildered, 
half  understanding. 

"Have  you  forgotten?  You  can't 
have  forgotten." 

"No.     Yes.     Tell  me." 
79 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"On  the  galley,"  she  said,  "after  you 
took  me  from  my  father  and  sailed 
away  and  put  me  on  the  skins  above 
the  rowers.  Don't  you  remember  the 
noise  the  great  sail  made  and  the  wash 
of  the  water  as  we  cut  through  it  ? 
What  a  Viking  you  were,  my  big  man." 

I  said:  "We're  awake,  Joany.  Let's 
face  things  up." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  sat  down,  rest- 
ing a  hand  on  my  book. 

I  sat,  too,  and  put  my  hand  possess- 
ingly  on  hers.  She  was  mine.  She  be- 
longed to  me. 

"Fisher  rented  this  cottage  from  some 
friends  of  his  for  the  summer.  Before 
we  left  New  York.  ..." 

"Fisher  is  Thompson  ?" 

:<Yes.  The  day  before  the  babies 
80 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  I  left,  —  I  don't  know  how  it  began 
or  whose  fault  it  was,  —  we  said  things 
to  each  other,  suddenly,  that  brought 
down  everything  like  a  pack  of  cards, 
—  things  that  had  been  on  the  tip  of 
my  tongue  to  say,  oh,  an  uncountable 
numbers  of  times  during  the  last  four 
years.  A  week  after  we  had  settled 
here  he  died."  ("He's  dead:  He's 
dead!"  The  words  went  running 
through  my  brain.)  "I  was  married 
at  eighteen  —  a  child  —  and  he  was  the 
wrong  man,  as  you  know.  I  found  it 
out  at  once.  He  wasn't  a  criminal,  or 
bad  in  any  way.  He  was  conceited  and 
pig-headed  and  weak,  but  meant  well 
and  worked  hard.  He  was  clever,  too, 
and  was  making  a  name.  He  loved  me 
as  well  as  he  knew  how  to  love  anyone 
81 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

besides  himself  and  he  admired  me  and 
leaned  on  me,  because  I  can  make  up 
my  mind.  He  relied  on  my  judgment 
almost  wholly  and  looked  to  me  like  a 
child  to  put  him  right,  although  playing 
and  posing  as  the  strong,  infallible  man. 
He  nearly  always  posed.  It  went  with 
his  peculiar  form  of  weakness,  which 
was  really  moral  cowardice.  There  was 
never  any  happiness  or  content  in  the 
house,  only  a  sort  of  tacit  agreement  to 
disagree  on  all  fundamental  things.  We 
kept  up  appearances  for  the  sake  of 
the  babies  and  our  families.  He  clung 
to  me  because  I  was  helpful.  Marriage  ? 
If  that's  marriage,  then  the  sooner  the 
law  and  the  church  are  forced  to  pre- 
vent such  a  thing,  the  better  for  hu- 
manity. We  muddled  along,  wasting 
82 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

the  best  of  life.  His  egotism  and  a  sort 
of  gift  for  reconstructing  facts  to  make 
them  look  as  he  desired  they  should 
enabled  him  to  get  through  somehow. 
Since  I've  been  here  I've  learned  from 
his  solicitors  that  he  left  no  money.  I 
had  with  me  just  enough  to  pay  the  first 
bills.  Now  I  have  nothing,  but  I 
haven't  been  anxious  because  somehow 
I  knew  that  you  were  on  your  way  to 
me.  I  don't  know  how  I  knew,  —  I 
just  did." 

I  watched  a  moth  fly  madly  round 
and  round  the  flame  of  one  of  the 
candles.  Finally  it  was  caught  and  fell 
with  a  little  thud.  I  was  amazed  to 
find  that  I  was  not  attacked  by  an 
overwhelming  passion  of  jealousy  and 
rage  —  that  the  incident  of  this  man 
83 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

seemed  untrue  and  unmeaning  and  nebu- 
lous. More  than  ever  the  babies  seemed 
to  be  mine  because  they  were  hers  and 
she  belonged  to  me.  I  put  the  palm 
of  her  hand  to  my  lips. 

She  went  on  thoughtfully.  "I  don't 
quite  know  why  I  married  him.  Does 
a  girl  of  eighteen  ever  quite  know  why 
she  marries  ?  I  had  known  him  for 
two  or  three  years.  He  was  kind  and 
clean  and  straight.  I  had  no  father  or 
brothers  to  talk  to  and  no  sister  to  con- 
sult. My  mother  was  absorbed  in  her 
own  interests  and  was  strangely  de- 
tached, the  last  person  in  the  world  I 
could  confide  in.  ...  I  know  that  I 
had  a  tremendous  yearning  for  children. 
Always  since  I  can  remember  children 
have  drawn  me.  I  have  spoken  to 
84 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

them  and  put  their  little  hands  against 
my  face  and  held  them  to  me  in  their 
helplessness  and  need,  —  in  the  street, 
in  trains,  in  hotels,  wherever  I  saw  them. 
I  know  that  I  wanted  to  possess  one  of 
my  own,  —  unbearably  sometimes.  I 
think  that's  why  I  married,  —  not  realiz- 
ing that  it  meant  so  much  more.  .  .  . 
Eighteen !  I  was  only  a  child.  And 
no  one  told  me.  .  .  .  But  now  you've 
come.  My  waiting  is  over  at  last." 

She  put  her  cheek  down  on  my  hand 
and  gave  a  long  sigh. 

And  for  a  time  we  sat  like  that,  in 
silence. 

Not    at   once,    but   in    a   few   months 

from  that  night  we  should  be  married. 

...     I  was  obsessed  with  a  great  joy, 

a  blessed  sense  of  harbourage,  the  splen- 

85 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

did  knowledge  that  I  had  found  my 
woman,  my  responsibility,  the  cord  that 
tied  me  to  life  and  lifted  it  from  a  weary, 
meaningless  tramp  into  something  fine 
and  big  and  purposeful. 

Like  children  we  were  too  happy  and 
contented  to  fret  at  having  to  conform 
to  convention.  About  death  there  is  a 
deep  solemnity.  We  had  met  and  loved 
and  the  earth  was  ours. 

I  left  early  so  that  Joan  should  have 
all  the  sleep  that  she  needed. 

I  didn't  go  straight  to  the  hotel.  I 
walked  and  walked,  listening  to  the  sea, 
hearing  the  song  of  the  stars,  watching 
the  shimmer  of  the  moon  on  the  water. 
The  sky  was  no  longer  overcast.  The 
blanket  of  clouds  had  been  drawn  back 
86 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  piled  up  in  a  great  mountainous 
heap,  like  dirty  snow,  and  there  was  a 
clear  delicious  sky,  all  fresh  and  clean. 

It  seemed  to  me  wonderfully  easy  to 
believe  in  the  existence  of  God  that 
night,  and  in  the  certainty  and  necessity 
of  a  future  life.  This  was  not  entirely 
because  I  was  profoundly,  startlingly 
happy  —  happiness  is  responsible  for  all 
good  thoughts.  The  beauty  and  wonder 
of  the  scene  all  round  and  over  me  filled 
me  with  reverence  and  optimism.  It 
was  not  an  accident.  It  was  not 
haphazard  any  more  than  is  the  creation 
of  life  —  itself  the  greatest  of  His 
miracles. 

I  stood  and  looked  and  listened,  and 
out  of  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky  I  could 
feel  the  need  equal  to  my  own,  as  urgent 
87 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  pressing  as  my  own,  for  a  mate  and 
for  children.  Nature  has  no  use  for 
lonely  detached  things.  Every  bird  and 
beast  and  plant  has  a  mission  to  per- 
form —  a  duty  to  carry  out.  The  very 
stars  weld  and  have  small  stars.  With- 
out God  there  could  have  been  no  hu- 
manity. If  humanity  ceased  what 
would  become  of  the  usefulness  of  God  ? 

I  had  found  Joan  .  .  .  and  out  there, 
in  God's  roofless  cathedral,  with  the 
organ  of  the  sea  giving  praise  and  His 
nightly  choir  joining  voices  to  His  ever- 
lasting glory,  I  thanked  Him  for  Joan 
and  her  little  ones. 

I  hadn't  told  her,  —  I  forgot ;    but  I 

intended  when  I  left  the  hotel  within  a 

few   hours    to    take    my   things    to    her 

cottage  and  stay  there.     There  was  no 

88 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

need  for  me  to  mention  it.  I  knew 
that  she  desired  it,  —  considered  it  to 
be  right.  In  future  she  must  be  respon- 
sible to  me  and  I  to  her.  Her  loneliness 
and  waste  of  life  were  over,  as  mine 
were.  I  —  and  I  knew  that  she  — 
didn't  intend  to  be  influenced  by  what 
people  might  say.  The  tongue  of 
scandal  is  in  the  mouth  of  Ananias. 
We  had  everything  to  gain  and  nothing 
to  lose.  But  my  room  should  not  be 
hers,  —  at  least,  not  yet,  —  and  in  that 
I  knew  instinctively  that  she  would 
agree.  Not  because  we  were  ashamed 
or  afraid.  Only  so  that  the  fulfilment 
of  love  should  be  blessed. 


89 


VI 

1  DROVE  up  with  my  baggage  about 
four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon.  The 
racketty  hired  motor-car  carried  almost 
more  than  it  could  stand,  and  the  man 
had  driven  squeezed  into  a  small  space 
by  a  large  trunk,  covered  with  labels. 
It  amused  me  to  see  him  steering  with 
one  hand  and  holding  a  kit  bag  with 
the  other,  while  he  chewed  gum  indus- 
triously, —  a  great  broad-shouldered  fel- 
low with  a  neck  like  a  bull's.  Every 
moment  I  had  expected  to  find  myself 
sitting  among  a  debris  of  wheels  and 
old  iron  in  the  undergrowth  that  lined 
90 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

the  unbelievable  road.  He  hauled  the 
car  to  a  standstill  with  a  rasping  of 
brakes  that  awoke  echoes,  and  carried 
in  my  things  as  though  they  were  small 
sacks  of  coal.  The  cowlike  action  of 
his  jaw  never  ceased. 

I  had  spent  the  morning  with  Joan 
on  the  verandah  and  my  room  was 
ready.  John  ran  out  to  meet  me,  fol- 
lowed by  Marjory.  "You  live  in  my 
house  now?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Are  you  glad?" 

His  reply  was  more  than  eloquent. 
He  flung  his  arms  round  me  and  when 
he  let  go  marched  about,  making  much 
noise  with  his  feet,  saying  "Ah-ha ! 
Ah-ha  !"  excitedly. 

"Is  Marjory  glad,  too?"  asked  Joan. 
"Yes,  mudder?" 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"Yes,  mudder." 

"And  has  she  got  a  nice  kiss  for 
John?  Yes,  mudder?" 

"Yes,  mudder,"  and  with  outstretched 
arms  she  came  up,  holding  up  her  face. 

Darling  kids  ! 

And  all  the  while  Nannie  stood  by 
with  amazement  in  her  eyes,  but  with 
the  spirit  of  romance  burning  in  them, 
too. 

My  room  faced  the  sea  and  had  two 
windows.  Between  them  was  a  round 
table  on  which  Joan  had  put  a  bowl 
of  flowers.  The  walls  were  unpapered. 
The  wood  was  varnished  and  nicely 
grained  and  the  floor  was  partially 
covered  by  a  plain  rug.  It  was  very 
fresh  and  cheery  and  filled  with  salt 
air. 

92 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

The  children,  intensely  interested, 
watched  me  unpack,  commenting  on  my 
socks  and  ties  and  hats  and  shoes. 

"When  I  be  as  big  as  John  I  have  all 
these  shoes,  mudder?"  asked  John. 

"If  you've  worked  as  hard,  old  son," 
said  Joan,  who  sat  in  a  low  chair,  with 
a  wonderful  smile  on  her  lips. 

Marjory  made  for  a  large  round  tin 
of  tobacco,  a  collar  box  and  a  bottle  of 
hair  stuff.  "When  these  be's  empty  I 
have  them,"  she  stated. 

"Don't  touch  anything,  darling,"  said 
Joan. 

"All  right,"  and  she  took  up  a  leather 
case  and  spilt  my  waistcoat  buttons, 
links  and  collar  studs  all  over  the  floor. 

"Marjory  won't  go  to  England,"  an- 
nounced John  the  second  with  the  superb 
93 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

•finality  of  a  county  court  judge.  Eng- 
land had  become  the  Mecca  of  their 
dreams. 

He  liked  my  clothes  and  as  I  hung 
them  up  on  the  hooks  felt  each  coat 
critically.  One  would  have  supposed 
that  the  lad  had  never  been  in  a  man's 
room  before,  so  absorbed  was  his  in- 
terest. I  put  him  into  a  golf  coat  which 
came  down  to  his  heels  and  he  strutted 
about  giving  an  admirable  imitation  of 
my  walk.  There  was  no  peace  until 
Marjory  was  dressed  up,  too,  and  they 
both  played  at  being  men,  carrying  a 
pipe  apiece ;  so  my  shirts  were  put 
away  while  they  were  occupied. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  come  true  to 
me,  especially  when  Joan  suddenly  got 
up  and  came  over  and  put  her  golden 
94 


Three  soldiers  in   the  sitting  room  before  dinner 
marched  grimly  round  and  round.     Page  95. 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

soft  head  on  my  chest  and  said,  "John, 
John!" 

There  were  three  soldiers  in  the 
sitting-room  before  dinner  who  marched 
grimly  round  and  round  armed  with 
the  latest  rifles,  —  a  putter,  a  mashie 
and  a  driving  iron,  very  rusty,  —  while 
"Alexander's  Rag-time  Band"  played 
in  the  barrack  square,  in  the  shape  of 
Joan,  who  sat  on  the  table  working  the 
gramophone,  with  one  white  shoe  crossed 
over  the  other  and  one  hand  beating 
time.  All  went  well  until  Marjory  broke 
away  and  slipped  in  front  of  John. 
Outraged  at  such  a  breach  of  military 
etiquette,  he  gave  her  a  mighty  heave, 
down  she  went  with  a  crash,  a  loud 
howl  uprose,  off  went  Joan  from  the 
95 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

table,  the  army  fell  into  hopeless  disrup- 
tion and  the  pin  slipped  off  the  grooves  of 
the  record  and  hissed  like  an  angry  swan. 

As  soon  as  Marjory  was  appeased 
and  her  knees  kissed,  Master  John  was 
dealt  with.  The  crime  of  hitting  a  girl 
was  explained  to  him  —  No  boy  who 
did  that  ever  grew  into  a  man,  —  a  regu- 
lar man.  It  wasn't  done  by  gentlemen. 
What  would  he  do  if  a  big  brute  came 
up  and  hit  mudder  ? 

The  boy's  hitherto  sulky  eyes  moved 
quickly  at  that,  with  a  new  glint  in 
them,  and  he  stole  his  hand  into  Joan's. 

"I  don't  want  to  spank  you,"  she 
went  on,  following  up  her  advantage, 
"because  that  hurts  me  much  more, 
yes,  much  more,  than  it  hurts  you,  be- 
cause you're  my  son,  and  when  my 
96 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

son  John  is  so  naughty  that  he  has  to 
be  spanked  I  want  to  go  away  and  hide, 
I'm  so  ashamed.  My  son  —  spanked  ? 
Think  of  it.  ...  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

The  boy's  mouth  began  to  tremble  a 
little  and  his  eyes  to  flicker.  "You  tell 
me,"  he  said. 

Joan  turned  to  me.  He  hated  that. 
"What  do  you  think  he  can  do?"  she 
asked  without  the  vestige  of  a  smile. 

I  frowned  heavily  and  remained  in 
deep  thought  for  a  moment,  watched 
closely  by  both  children. 

Marjory  had  the  air  of  a  great  heroine. 
She  was  not  enjoying  it  quite  so  much 
now,  because  there  was  so  much  serious- 
ness in  the  air. 

"He  must  go  up  to  Marjory  and  say, 
97 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

'I'm  very  sorry.  I  won't  do  it  again. 
Please  forgive  me.'  Otherwise  he'll  have 
to  be  a  postman  or  a  trolley-car  con- 
ductor, and  Marjory  and  I  will  be 
soldiers." 

For  a  moment  he  wrestled  hard  with 
pride.  It  was  a  big  struggle.  But 
when  he  saw  me  pick  up  the  club  that 
he  had  dropped,  he  went  and  stood 
about  five  feet  away  from  Marjory  and 
recited  the  awful  words.  "I  very  sorry. 
I  won't  do  it  again." 

Joan  prompted  him. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  added. 
Then  he  made  a  rush  to  a  corner  and 
stood  with  his  face  to  the  wall  and  I 
knew  that  his  mouth  was  wide  open 
and  his  eyes  drawn  down  and  big  tears 
running  down  his  cheeks. 
98 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

I  stopped  Joan  as  she  was  going  to 
make  a  rush  for  him  and  called  out, 
with  my  best  parade  rasp,  "Army,  fall 
in,"  and  began  marking  time.  So  did 
Marjory.  And  after  a  few  seconds  he 
turned  round,  crept  back,  took  his  club 
from  a  chair  and  fell  in  alongside  me, 
and  out  came  the  sun,  away  went 
"Alexander's  Rag-time  Band,"  and  Joan 
went  back  to  her  place  on  the  table  and 
the  manoeuvres  continued. 

Even  a  watch  spring  is  not  more  deli- 
cately hung  than  the  mind  of  a  child. 

After  dinner,  at  Joan's  earnest  re- 
quest, I  dictated  to  her  for  two  hours. 

At  first,  it  was  difficult  to  switch  my 
mind  away  from  that  charming,  alluring 
figure,  sitting  at  the  table,  with  a  pencil 
99 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

in  her  well  cut  hand  and  the  light  of 
the  candles  thrown  back  from  her  golden 
hair.  The  gravity  of  her  beautiful 
girlish  face,  —  the  profile  silhouetted 
against  the  wall  that  was  in  shadow,  — 
made  me  want  to  laugh.  It  was  so  very 
grave  and  important.  And  then  the 
irresistible  call  of  her  femininity  filled 
me  with  a  wild  desire  to  go  and  kneel 
at  her  feet  and  wrap  my  arms  round 
her  and  take  her  lips.  I  adored  her. 
She  awoke  all  the  latent  passion,  all  the 
starved  love,  that  was  in  me.  .  .  . 

But  I  controlled  myself,  and  while 
she  read  out  the  last  two  pages  of  my 
last  chapter,  stood  with  my  face  be- 
tween my  hands  and  my  elbows  on  the 
mantel-board.  Then  the  wheels  of  my 
brain  began  to  move  and  my  characters 
100 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

to  take  shape  and,  walking  up  and 
down  like  an  animal  in  a  cage,  I  spoke 
a  new  chapter,  hearing  what  the  people 
to  whom  my  imagination  had  given 
birth  had  to  say,  describing  exactly 
what  I  saw  them  do.  During  that  two 
hours  I  might  have  been  a  thousand 
miles  from  Joan  and  the  babies.  I  was 
the  mere  trained  instrument,  the  articu- 
late reporter,  the  recorder  of  what  I 
saw  and  heard. 

I  returned  to  consciousness  when  the 
chapter  ended  and  the  peep-hole  through 
which  I  had  been  peering  was  closed 
suddenly,  as  though  by  the  fall  of  a 
curtain. 

And  then,  oh,  my  God,  how  warm 
and  tender  and  relying  she  was  against 

my  heart. 

101 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"I  love  you,  I  love,"  she  said,  "I 
love  you." 

"I  love  you,"  I  said,  "I  love  you," 
and  my  heart  beat  strong  and  true  and 
all  my  body  was  full  of  health  and  the 
joy  of  life. 

Somewhere  a  clock  struck  eleven  and 
I  let  her  go. 

"Bed?"    she  said. 

I  nodded  and  took  the  two  candles. 
I  waited  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  while 
she  locked  the  door  and  then  followed 
her  up.  Her  room  was  next  to  mine. 
She  opened  her  door  and  I  gave  her  a 
light.  And  for  a  moment  we  stood 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  afraid  to 
speak. 

Then:     "God   bless   you,   John,"   she 
said,  and  gave  me  her  hand. 
1 02 


For  a  moment  we  stood  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes,  afraid  to  speak.     Page  102. 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"God  bless  you,  Joany,"  I  answered, 
and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

Our  doors  shut  together. 

But  the  day  had  come  up  over  the 
horizon  before  I  put  down  the  book  I 
was  reading  and  the  pipe  I  had  loaded 
and  reloaded,  and  fell  asleep,  —  to 
dream. 


103 


VII 

JOAN  and  the  babies  and  I  seemed  to 
have  the  earth   almost  to  ourselves 
during  the  days  that  followed. 

Another  heavy  torrent  of  rain  which 
lasted  all  one  night  and  part  of  the 
next  day  seemed  to  bring  autumn  with 
it,  and  leave  behind  a  nagging,  dis- 
agreeable, cross-grained  wind  that 
chilled  the  air  after  sundown  and  tor- 
mented the  sea  into  a  constant  irri- 
tation. They  were  more  like  October 
than  September  days.  A  log  fire  in 
the  evening  was  very  cheery  and  desir- 
able. 

104 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

But  there  was  spring  in  my  heart  and 
Joan's. 

I  continued  to  dictate  to  her  and  we 
mapped  out  the  time  into  regular  hours 
of  work  and  play.  Nine  o'clock  found 
us  in  the  sun  on  the  verandah.  Up 
and  down  I  paced  until  eleven,  when 
we  went  down  to  the  babies  and  built 
castles  or  hunted  for  shells  or  stalked 
Indians,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  ten- 
cent  revolvers,  or  scrambled  about 
among  the  rocks. 

After  lunch,  leaving  the  two  young- 
sters asleep  in  the  nursery,  we  went  off 
to  the  golf  course  and  practised  short 
approaches  and  putting,  eliminating  our- 
selves with  a  scrupulous  attention  to 
the  rules  of  the  royal  and  ancient  that 
the  few  remaining  golfers  sometimes 
105 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

failed  to  acknowledge  with  the  right 
courtesy.  Being  incurably  English,  I 
instituted  the  habit  of  tea,  and  we  sat 
on  the  excellent  verandah  of  the  golf 
house,  dodging  mosquitoes,  and  ate  the 
marmalade  sandwiches  that  accompanied 
it.  Then  we  went  back  laughing  and 
talking,  hand  in  hand,  found  the  chil- 
dren and  kept  them  interested  and 
amused  till  Nannie  called  them  to 
supper.  After  dinner  worked  again. 

Nothing  broke  the  placid  normality 
of  all  those  good  hours  —  nothing.  Not 
even  nature,  who,  by  tacit  agreement 
we  recognized  and  warded  off.  Not 
yet,  we  both  seemed  to  say  to  her  —  the 
time  has  not  come.  Torture  us  as  little 
as  you  can,  friend,  but  be  near  at  hand. 

What,  in  all  this,  is  almost  unbe- 
106 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

lievable  to  me  now,  seemed  then  to  be 
perfectly  natural  and  right.  It  still 
seems  to  be  natural  and  right;  but  the 
peculiarity,  the  indescribable  frankness 
and  simplicity  of  it  all  stands  out  bigly 
against  the  world's  background  of  deceit 
and  hypocrisy  and  illicit  love.  There 
was  honesty  in  what  we  had  done,  at 
any  rate,  and  strength.  We  met,  at 
last,  and  knew  each  other  on  sight.  We 
were  unafraid.  Of  nothing  had  we  to 
be  ashamed.  This  was  too  big  and 
fine  a  love  for  us  to  spoil.  It  was  not 
a  thing  of  the  moment,  ephemeral  and 
greedy.  It  meant  something  more  than 
self-indulgence.  There  were  other  lives, 
other  small  human  things  to  consider, 
to  whom  to  be  responsible  and  to  whom 
to  answer. 

107 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

That  was  our  open  and  simple  atti- 
tude. Working  and  playing,  utterly 
happy  and  thankful,  with  heart  and  soul 
filled  with  content  and  joy  and  grati- 
tude, we  went  on,  quietly  waiting,  un- 
worried,  unanxious,  for  the  time  when 
we  could,  without  offending  the  natural 
susceptibilities  either  of  Thompson's 
people  or  of  hers,  go  into  Church 
together. 


108 


VIII 

THE  following  four  days  were  golden 
and  unforgetable.  Warmth  came 
back  into  the  sun  and  hardly  a  fleck  of 
cloud  broke  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
sky.  The  sea  put  on  the  kittenish,  soft, 
purring  airs  of  a  young  and  coquettish 
girl  and  played  upon  the  beach.  A 
dancing  haze  hung  all  round  the  cottage 
like  a  screen  of  multitudinous  and  al- 
most invisible  beads  and  only  after  the 
sun  went  down  in  all  the  pageantry  of  a 
royal  death  was  there  the  tang  of 
autumn  in  the  air. 

There  are  no  days  more  beautiful  or 
109 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

inspiring  in  all  the  year  than  those  of  a 
fine  September.  Their  mellowness  is 
like  that  of  a  splendid  woman  who 
takes  a  little  rest  after  having  sent  her 
children  to  school  and  who  has  time 
and  the  mood  to  remember  that  her  own 
youth  and  loveliness  have  not  yet  gone. 
It  must  be  very  good  for  September, 
as  for  a  good  mother,  to  look  back  on 
her  achievements  ;  on  the  great  promises 
of  spring  fulfilled  in  the  summer;  on 
the  new  life  all  out  strongly  in  the 
world ;  on  the  new  beginnings  that  will 
eventually  ripen  to  a  useful  maturity. 
How  fine  and  exquisite  a  deed  is  mother- 
hood. The  future  destiny  of  the  world 
is  the  work  of  the  mother.  It  is  given 
to  her  as  to  no  one  else  to  reap  what 
she  has  sown.  She  is  the  most  power- 
no 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

fill  of  all  religions,  the  medium  for 
God's  greatest  and  most  perpetual 
miracle.  Science  with  all  its  amaze- 
ment and  art  in  its  most  inspiring  forms 
cannot  compete  with  the  woman  who 
bears  children. 

In  the  cottage  that  was  aloof  and 
detached  from  all  but  the  perpetual 
traffic  of  the  sea  there  were  four  happy 
children.  It  is  right  that  I  should  put 
Joan  and  myself  under  that  heading. 
Love  had  the  gift  of  making  people 
childlike.  It  gives  simplicity  and  trust 
and  charity  and  faith  and  that  intimate 
understanding  of  nature  as  the  eye  sees 
it  that  go  with  childhood  before  dis- 
illusion and  disappointment,  grief,  dis- 
loyalty and  ungratefulness  make  the 
heart  bitter  and  sceptical,  and  the  eye 
in 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

introspective.  We  were  childlike  also 
in  that  we  did  without  the  gratification 
of  passion,  though  this  was  not  easy. 
We  promised  each  other  that  we  would 
wait  for  the  child's  sake.  We  kept  this 
promise. 

Working  and  playing,  together  and 
with  the  children,  those  memorable  days 
passed  all  too  quickly.  We  were  nearly 
as  completely  isolated  as  though  be- 
calmed on  a  deserted  sea.  There  we 
were,  on  what  seemed  to  be  the  edge  of 
the  earth,  a  mile  from  a  summer  resort 
from  which  all  the  visitors  had  gone, 
two  and  a  half  miles  from  a  town  that 
was  half-a-day's  journey  from  New 
York,  without  mails  or  newspapers  or 
telephones ;  tradesmen  the  only  people 
who  came  near  us ;  Rose  and  Nannie 
112 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

and  the  babies  the  only  other  persons  in 
the  house. 

If  ever  fate  placed  two  people  in  a 
position  of  the  most  searching  and  even 
disillusioning  test,  we  surely  were  the 
two  that  were  chosen.  Together  day 
after  day  anything  might  have  happened 
but  for  the  most  complete  mutual  sym- 
pathy and  a  love  as  faithful  and  endur- 
ing as  it  was  physically  passionate  and 
hungry. 

If  I  had  been  tortured  by  jealousy, 
and  my  brain  had  been  the  happy  hunt- 
ing-ground of  morbid  and  hellish 
thoughts  of  Thompson  as  the  father  of 
Joan's  two  babies,  I  can  conceive  think- 
ing of  them  as  perpetual  reminders  of 
years  in  which  I  had  no  place,  and  then 
the  first  faint  shadow  of  the  grim  and 
"3 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

ugly  figure  that  seems  to  take  a  devilish 
joy  in  coming  between  men  and  women 
must  have  fallen  upon  the  wall  of  the 
cottage.  It  may  be  difficult  to  make 
some  people  believe  that  I  needed  the 
babies  almost  as  much  as  Joan  did. 
To  me  they  seemed  to  complete  the 
picture  of  her  which  was  framed  by  my 
love.  They  were  preciously  hers,  part 
of  her  as  much  as  her  long,  fair  hair, 
her  delicately  cut,  sensitive  hands,  and 
her  eyes  that  set  me  on  fire.  That 
being  so,  the  babies  also  belonged  to  me. 
They  came  to  me  with  her.  I  chose  to 
think  —  I  think  it  still  —  that  they  were 
part  of  the  exquisite  responsibility  with- 
out which  love  may  one  day  turn  a 
distant  corner  hand  in  hand  with  passion. 
The  jealousy  that  sometimes  clutched 
114 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

me  by  the  throat  and  struggled  for 
mastery  was  not  of  Thompson  —  that 
insubstantial  creature  who  seemed  to 
have  wandered  into  life  from  a  box  of 
marionettes  —  but  of  the  good  and  fruit- 
ful years  that  Joan  and  I  might  have 
spent  together,  in  the  first  glory  of  our 
youth. 

In  the  hours  that  were  not  devoted 
to  work  we  talked  of  this  as  we  scoured 
the  country,  now  in  its  red  and  golden 
clothing.  It  was  a  definite  agreement 
between  us  that  we  were  to  hide  nothing 
from  each  other;  to  be  scrupulously 
honest  in  everything;  never  to  let  any 
question  that  crept  into  the  mind  stay 
in  it  to  rankle  and  spread,  cancerously, 
and  to  deal  truthfully  by  each  other 
always,  under  all  circumstances.  We 
"S 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

decided  also  never  to  argue,  or  indulge 
in  sarcasm  even  by  way  of  joke,  and, 
above  all,  to  turn  and  run  top-speed 
from  anything  that  might  lead  to  a 
quarrel.  No  day  is  long  enough  for 
love.  In  what  part  of  it,  then,  is  there 
time  for  quarreling  ?  Just  as  the  draw- 
ing of  a  brutal  finger  across  the  delicate 
wing  of  a  butterfly  leaves  an  indelible 
mark,  the  first  quarrel  bruises  the  irre- 
coverable bloom  of  love.  There  were 
many  small  points  on  which,  of  no  ac- 
count, we  had  already  agreed  to  differ. 
But  if  there  were  two  opinions  on  vital 
matters,  as,  for  instance,  the  schooling 
of  the  children,  or  any  other  of  the 
hundred  and  one  questions  that  must 
come  up  in  our  life  together,  mine  was 
to  be  the  final  say.  This,  not  because 
116 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

my  judgment  was  regarded  as  infallible, 
or    because    I    happened    to    be    some 

years    older    than    Joan    and    therefore 
/ 

might  be  supposed  to  have  acquired 
additional  wisdom,  or,  at  any  rate,  more 
knowledge  of  life  and  how  it  should  be 
managed,  but  for  the  simple,  excellent 
reason  that  I  was  the  male  —  the 
master.  We  heard,  mentally,  the  angry 
and  derisive  laughter  of  advanced  women 
when  this  point  was  arrived  at,  and  I 
gave  Joan  an  imitation  of  one  of  them 
hurling  such  epithets  at  my  head  as 
"old-fashioned",  "out-of-date",  and  the 
rest  of  them.  The  fact  remained  how- 
ever that  being  male  I  intended  to 
follow  the  law  of  nature  and  be  the 
dominating  factor  —  a  law  which  if 
adopted  by  American  husbands  would 
117 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

save  many  thoughtless  women,  over- 
burdened with  freedom,  from  making 
epic  fools  of  themselves. 

We  both  felt,  I  think,  during  those 
beautiful,  curious,  detached  days,  as 
though  Time  had  come  to  a  dead  stop 
—  as  though  the  very  earth  had  halted 
in  its  incessant  movement  —  and  we 
seized  upon  this  wonderful  and  solemn 
pause  to  take  stock  of  ourselves  and  then 
draw  up  a  deed  of  partnership  to  which 
to  subscribe  our  names.  Neither  of  us 
failed  to  recognize  the  deadly  serious- 
ness of  our  compact,  and  neither  of  us 
had  any  fear  as  to  its  success. 

We    were    returning    from    the    golf 
course  one  evening  —  the  now  deserted 
golf  course  —  where  the  club-house  was 
118 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

closed  and  the  sturdy,  middle-aged  man 
who  sat  on  a  cutting-machine  and  drove 
a  patient,  big-footed  horse  up  and  down 
and  then  across,  leaving  long,  velvety 
lines  behind,  were  our  only  companions. 
The  light  had  gone  out  with  that  pecul- 
iar swiftness  which  is  so  surprising  to 
Europeans.  We  turned  round  suddenly 
to  find  night  standing  at  our  elbows. 
With  one  arm  round  Joan's  delicious 
shoulders  and  one  hand  holding  the 
strap  of  my  bag  of  clubs  —  their  faces 
all  damp  and  stained  with  wet  grass  — 
we  left  the  great  deserted  hotel  behind 
and  went  along  the  short  road  which 
led  to  the  sands.  On  each  side  the 
houses  were  shut  up  and  the  few  re- 
maining flowers  in  the  small  gardens 
had  already  become  unkempt  and  un- 
119 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

tidy,  like  children  running  wild.  The 
first  star  came  out  and  looked  like  a 
little  hole  pricked  in  the  sky.  The 
wind  that  came  over  the  sea  was  keen 
and  sharp. 

Half-way  across  the  sands  the  amaz- 
ing sense  of  being  alone  on  earth  with 
Joan  that  was  given  to  me  by  the  soli- 
tariness of  the  place  and  the  oncoming 
darkness,  swept  over  me.  I  became 
suddenly  a  primeval  man  alone  with 
his  mate  —  his  woman.  Passion,  the 
gorgeous  knowledge  of  possession,  an 
irresistible  desire  to  hold  and  touch,  to 
feel  the  answer  of  her  lips,  the  response 
of  her  body,  carried  me  away.  I  flung 
my  clubs  down,  seized  Joan  in  my 
arms  and  kissed  her.  She  suddenly 
startled  me  with  a  sort  of  yearning, 
120 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

maternal    cry,    as    her    arms    tightened 
about  my  neck. 

"Oh,  John,  John!  My  man,  my 
master!"  she  cried.  "Make  me  the 
mother  of  your  son !  I  want  him !  I 
need  him !  I  want  to  do  something  for 
you,  to  reproduce  you,  to  have  the  pride 
and  joy  of  bearing  fruit  by  you,  to  see 
you  small  and  helpless  and  dependent, 
to  feed  you,  —  the  little  new  you,  — 
to  have  a  little  baby  hand  clasp  my 
ringer  and  a  little  hungry  mouth  fumble 
for  my  breast !" 

I  don't  know  what  I  said.  What 
could  I  say  ?  What  was  there  to  say 
except  that  love  such  as  ours,  good  and 
great  and  true  and  faithful  as  it  was, 
must  wait  for  the  recognition  of  the 
Church. 

121 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

"It  can't  be,"  I  said.  "I  want  you 
to  give  a  child  to  me.  I  want  to  see 
you  fulfilling  the  law  of  nature  by  me, 
but  we  must  wait." 

"How  long?"  she  asked,  all  warm 
and  soft  and  alluring  in  my  arms. 

"A  little  while  longer  —  only  a  little 
while  longer." 

She  still  clung  to  me  in  all  the  beauty 
of  her  youth  —  in  all  the  urgency 
of  her  womanhood  —  silently  demand- 
ing her  rights  —  setting  my  brain  and 
blood  in  a  hot  turmoil  of  desire.  I 
put  my  lips  to  her  ear  and  begged 
her  not  to  tempt,  not  to  weaken  my 
strength,  but  to  help  and  make  less 
selfish. 

And  then  she  kissed  me  and  her  arms 
relaxed  and  we  went  home. 
122 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

It  was  all  too  difficult,  as  of  course 
any  average  man  or  woman  could  have 
told  us  had  we  asked  for  advice. 

The  time  came  when  to  live  in  that 
exposed  bungalow  —  now  almost  always 
wet  with  the  sea's  spray  and  wholly  cut 
off  from  the  town  because  the  trolley- 
cars  had  ceased  to  run  —  was  impossible. 
The  last  vestige  of  summer  had  dis- 
appeared and  winter  was  dogging  the  heels 
of  autumn.  It  was  not  good  to  keep  the 
babies  in  this  place  any  longer.  Joan  had 
nowhere  to  take  them,  and  no  money. 

One  windy  morning  Joan  and  I 
marched  into  the  town.  Having  already 
broken  the  conventions  we  decided  to 
mend  them  by  obtaining  a  license  to  be 
married,  and  we  presented  ourselves 
before  the  proper  official,  gave  him  all 
123 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

the  necessary  details,  obtained  the  docu- 
ment, and  duly  armed  with  this  called 
on  the  rector  of  an  Episcopal  Church,  a 
kindly  old  man,  who  smiled  benignly 
upon  us  and  rinding  that  we  had  no 
witness,  asked  his  housekeeper  to  follow 
us  into  the  Church.  Quite  accustomed 
to  being  called  upon  to  perform  this 
duty  the  old  lady,  in  whose  heart  ro- 
mance still  dwelt,  took  her  place  and 
the  simple  ceremony  was  performed  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  song  of  the 
wind.  The  beautiful  service  was  read 
with  quiet  dignity  and  impressiveness 
by  the  rector,  and  when  the  little  ring 
which  I  had  bought  in  the  town  was 
slipped  by  me  on  Joan's  finger,  the  look 
that  came  into  her  eyes  brought  out  of 
my  heart  a  prayer  that  I  might  be 
124 


JOAN    AND    THE    BABIES    AND    I 

worthy  of  her  and  a  good  father  to  those 
two  little  children  whose  future  happi- 
ness and  well-being  were  at  my  mercy. 

And  then,  having  made  inquiries 
about  trains  to  Boston,  where  we  in- 
tended to  spend  the  winter,  we  retraced 
our  steps  to  the  bungalow.  With  a  song 
on  her  lips,  Joan  went  off  to  find  the 
babies  and  bring  them  back  to  lunch,  and 
I  sat  down  to  begin  a  new  chapter. 

Presently  Joan  found  me  at  work,  sat 
on  the  edge  of  my  chair  and  put  her 
arms  round  my  neck,  and  I  whispered 
something  in  her  ear  that  brought  into 
her  face  the  look'  of  a  Madonna. 

Metaphorically  I  raised  my  hand  to 
the  figure  of  fate  which  had  stood  wait- 
ing on  the  threshold,  and  said:  "Pass, 
friend!  All's  well!" 


Books  by  Cosmo  Hamilton 


The  Blindness  of  Virtue 

"  A  plea  to  mothers  to  tell  their  daughters  frankly  all  the 
laws  of  nature  before  they  arrive  at  years  of  possible  indis- 
cretion through  innocence.  Its  characters  are  uncommonly 
well  drawn  and  might  have  stepped  out  of  life." — New  York 
Evening  Sun. 

"  A  beautiful  piece  of  work  dealing  with  a  stupendously 
difficult  subject  with  the  most  dexterous  blending  of  delicacy, 
dramatic  strength  and  wholesome  candor." — London  Daily 
Chronicle. 

307  Pages.      $  I. 3  5  net. 


The  Miracle  of  Love 

"  One  of  the  most  notable  novels  of  the  year,  well  worth 
reading  by  those  who  are  seeking  more  than  a  pleasant  hour, 
but  wholly  delightful  merely  as  a  story." — New  Haven 
Register. 

44  It  is  a  fine,  well  told  and  purposeful  tale,  with  brilliant 
and  quotable  passages." — Detroit  Free  Press. 
325  Pages.      $1.35  net. 


The  Door  That  Has  No  Key 

"A  work  of  genuine  power;  it  is  impossible  to  read  it 
unmoved." — Providence  Journal. 

"A  novel  to  re-read  and  preserve.  A  wonderful  piece  of 
work,  alive  with  emotion." — London  World. 

"  Discusses  marriage  and  divorce.  With  its  brilliant  char- 
acteristics it  is  a  notable  novel." — New  York  Evening  Sun. 
324  Pages.  $1.35  net. 

LITTLE,  BROWN  fcf  CO.,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


Books  by  Cosmo  Hamilton 
The  Blindness  of  Virtue 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

In  this  drama  of  two  girls'  careers  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton shows  powerfully  just  how  far  innocence, 
that  is  only  ignorance,  is  a  protection.  He 
levels  the  finger  of  accusation  against  parents 
whose  cowardice  of  silence,  masquerading  as  re- 
finement, threatens  ruin  in  their  children's  lives. 

"  It  is  the  biggest  sermon  on  the  subject  that  has  ever 
been  preached." — Dorothy  Dix. 

I  z  6  Pages.      $  i .  oo  net. 


A  Plea  for  the  Younger 
Generation 

"It  is  a  little  bomb  which  any  one  at  all  interested  in 
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and  consider.  It  is  written  with  the  glow  of  conviction  and 
there  is  merit  in  it  from  cover  to  cover." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  It  is  a  very  small  book,  but  into  its  compass  the  author 
contrives  to  say  nearly  all  that  is  worth  while  on  'the 
tragedy  of  half  truths'  on  sex  matters  when  they  are  told 
to  children." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

»6mo.      75  cents  net. 

LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


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